


Sansa's Ghost

by rummy_cat



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Ghosts, Happy Starks (ASoIaF), Haunted Houses, Humor, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mystery, Protective Sandor Clegane, Sexual Content, Wolf Pack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:53:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27213730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rummy_cat/pseuds/rummy_cat
Summary: Sansa moves into an old farmhouse and begins to notice strange happenings. She becomes embroiled with learning everything she can about the former inhabitants all while developing a bond with the grumpy ghost she believes is haunting her.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 115
Kudos: 171
Collections: Fave_Fanfics_Rereads





	1. The House

**Author's Note:**

> Halloween is a great time to post a ghost fic, but I consider this more of a drama/mystery than a "scary story".

“It’s got good bones.”

Sansa smiled at the young realtor. His cheap polyester suit and hopeful gaze gave away that he sat low in the hierarchy of his firm, not that it mattered to her.

She was smart enough to know what the phrase meant – that the only redeeming quality of the old farmhouse was its sturdy foundation and walls, which had obviously withstood the test of time.

If the young man thought he needed to sell her, though, he was mistaken. She’d found the listing in one of those free real estate magazines printed on matte paper that transferred ink easily to the sticky fingers of diner patrons who, more often than not, were not in the market for whatever the periodical was hocking.

The black and white photo practically jumped off the page at Sansa, who _was_ in the market for a house. She and each of her siblings received a generous inheritance from Grandpa Tully six months ago, and Sansa knew the moment the check was in her hands what she would spend it on.

There were many practical reasons to buy a house. Real estate investment was always a wise decision, her father lectured many times over the years. She also was tired of paying rent on a tiny studio apartment with thin walls that broadcast every movement and word of her neighbors on each side. As an author, moving to a detached house would give her the peace and quiet she needed to write productively.

But there was also some ineffable longing in her heart, one that had been there since she was a young girl, if she’d known what to call it at the time. She was drawn to old things, old places, even old people. She loved history and all the mystery it had to offer.

The listing claimed the four-bedroom farmhouse was “charming” (another word for outdated). It said it was “secluded” (meaning not another soul for miles – a terrifying idea for most). It boasted two acres, but with nothing but woods on all sides, it might as well have been a thousand.

Old and secluded were selling points enough for Sansa, who knew precisely what she wanted. But it was something in the photo that pulled her in like a moth to a flame. The house’s face (yes, all houses have faces) seemed to offer both a welcome and a warning. She recognized immediately, sitting at the booth in a downtown diner, that the house was looking for the right owner. It warned off anyone who’d buy it just to plow it to the ground and build some tasteless split level in its place, or even anyone who would salvage the _good bones_ but rehash the interior in shades of taupe, moss green, and mustard yellow – the drab colors that were all the rage now for reasons Sansa couldn’t understand.

The _welcome_ was there only for the rare, soon-to-be-homeowner who appreciated the timeless and rustic charms of a hundred-plus-year-old stone farmhouse. Who would hang crisp white sheets on an outdoor wash line. Who wouldn’t resurface or even paint the solid wood cabinet doors in the kitchen. Who wouldn’t remove the shutters just because they clanked with a strong wind. Who wouldn’t cover over the natural knots and swirls in the wooden plank flooring with garish shag carpet.

Of course, sitting in the diner staring at the lone photo and brief listing, Sansa didn’t know that the kitchen cabinets were wood, or that the floors hadn’t been carpeted, or that there was a tree waiting for a wash line to be affixed. Yet she could picture it all in her mind’s eye and had called from a payphone to schedule a tour of the property.

That tour had proven her right on all accounts. Not even some halfhearted attempts had been made over the years to update the house’s primitive aesthetic. Everything about it was utilitarian, though it didn’t lack for warmth. Antique furniture adorned each room. The realtor explained it was being sold with the house, since the previous owner had passed away and no one came to claim any of the possessions, nor the home itself.

When she inquired about the owner, because she was too curious to help herself, the man simply shrugged, “House has been on the market since before I got my license.”

Sansa was surprised the house hadn’t sold. Though few people would appreciate the house the way she did, the lot alone should have been quite desirable. Perhaps though, the location was a deterrent. It was five miles from the nearest sign of civilization – a two-pump gas station with a convenience store that only sold goods with a very long shelf-life. It was another five miles to what acted as “downtown”. A main street with a savings & loan, library, grocery store, antique shop, and a few other storefronts Sansa couldn’t recall even though she’d passed through not more than an hour ago. The only other buildings for miles in each direction were other homes. Some looked abandoned, some simply neglected. A few were modest but exhibited a pride of ownership in hanging flower baskets, neatly trimmed lawns, or wind chimes dancing on the breeze.

The low asking price should have alarmed her. It hinted at some flaw – a crumbling foundation, a furnace on its last legs, a septic that would back up into the dirt-floored basement, or a well that would run dry if the summer proved to be hot and arid.

But Sansa would have money left over to address any (though not all) of those issues, should they arise. And the inspector’s report gave the house a clean bill of health, though Sansa knew inspectors could be paid to omit certain items of concern.

Sansa didn’t think, and barely inspected each of the rooms before smiling at the realtor, “I’ll take it.”

The man was so shocked it took a minute before his joy was revealed. He eventually shook her hand, “Wonderful, Miss Stark. Congratulations!”

“When can I move in?”

He looked awestruck again, “The house is unoccupied, and since it’s a cash payment and no escrow, you can move in as soon as you hand us a cashier’s check!”

Sansa smiled and produced said check from her purse. She had withdrawn it from the bank this morning for the full asking price, even though she knew there was room for haggling.

“Wow,” the man scratched his head, “Well, let’s just get back to the office and sign some paperwork. It will be filed with the county tomorrow, so you can move in as early as Thursday!”

Sansa beamed, but it was more for the house that would become her home than it was for the kind young salesman. Sensing this was an important moment, he excused himself to his car, encouraging her to take her time and join him when she was ready.

She smiled at him appreciatively, waiting until he left to run her fingers along the wooden kitchen counters that had once been heavily lacquered, as evidenced by the glaze still coating the corners along the backsplash. She looked out the back window, smiling at the wash line stretching from the house to a large elm tree some forty feet away.

She walked into the living room, admiring the stone mantle surrounding a large fireplace. The windows in this room were large, nearly floor to ceiling, with wide ledges that would soon become home to houseplants and knickknacks. She ran her fingers along the wooden trim when she felt someone touch her shoulder. She turned, expecting to find an impatient realtor, but no one was there.

She chalked it up to a lock of hair dusting across her shoulder, or perhaps simply her vivid imagination. It’s what made her a good author, accomplished with three novels under her belt by the age of twenty-six. She could picture things with remarkable detail by simply closing her eyes. She was a daydreamer, always conjuring images of olden times. Her sister Arya would say she fantasized about being a fair maiden, swept off her feet by a gallant knight, but it was never so pedestrian. Sansa could imagine entire worlds, replete with characters so nuanced she felt they were real. Her characters were her companions, speaking to her in their own unique voices anytime she cared to call them forth. Living alone the past two years she often imagined the pieces of advice that Nan, an elderly nurse to a brood of young princes and princesses, would say. When she did something silly or absent-minded, which was frequent, she’d hear the good-natured mocking of the beloved butler. She lived with these characters for hours each day, creating them and molding them, but ultimately letting them become their own people.

Of course, she knew it was _her_ voice they all spoke, but she wrote their thoughts and words so thoroughly that she could exist only as their mouthpiece. She was a timid, polite young woman, but she could easily express the bitter, cynical point of view of the weathered commander of the King’s army, who’d seen more than his fair share of battles.

Sansa sighed. Two days seemed like an eternity. Her apartment was already packed with the few belongings that would accompany her – clothing, dishes and pans, books, records, cleaning supplies, toiletries, pictures, small decorative items, and a few other valuable or meaningful possessions. All her furniture except her desk and bed was being gifted to her younger brother Bran who was moving into his first apartment in two short months.

She stood at the threshold to the house, one hand on the doorknob. “I’ll be back soon,” she whispered. This house had gone too long without a loving resident; she wanted it to know she wasn’t abandoning it.

She pulled the door shut and climbed into her car, ready to follow the realtor to his office, where she’d sign her name a hundred times, but it would be worth it.

…

“San, this place is LAME,” Arya spoke without removing her eyes from the baseball she was tossing back and forth casually.

Sansa rolled her eyes, “I didn’t need your help, remember? I think I can handle twelve cardboard boxes myself. Rick and Robb already brought the bed and desk this morning in the truck.”

“I know,” Arya shrugged, “Just wanted to see what was so special about this place.”

Sansa smiled, “And?”

“And… I don’t see it.”

Sansa smacked the back of her head playfully, “You and I have different taste, I thought you knew that by now.”

It was a monumental understatement. Arya rode the latest counter-culture fads, ignoring the fact that their trendiness made them mainstream, even if for a smaller portion of the population. Sansa was timeless. Or perhaps old-fashioned. She rejected modernity in all its forms, and not out of some purposeful desire to go against the grain, but because they held no appeal to her. Modern furniture was tacky and not built to last. Microwaves were loud and ugly, and probably contaminated her food with radioactive traces. Contemporary movies and TV shows pandered cheap violence and tasteless nudity at the expense of thoughtful scripts, steady pacing, and the once appreciated artform of _leaving something to the imagination._

“Yeah, that’s an understatement,” Arya snapped the bubble gum in her mouth, “Is the phone hooked up yet? I want to call Gendry.”

Sansa frowned, “I’m not sure… hadn’t thought about it…” She inspected the kitchen but found no phone nor jack. Same for the living room, the entryway, and the back mudroom.

As she was about to continue her search upstairs Arya came back into the house, Sansa having not even noticed her leave. Arya chuckled, “You _dumbass_. There are no phone lines here. You’ve got no phone – period!”

Sansa’s eyes widened at the implication. While she craved privacy, she didn’t want to be completely untethered to society.

Arya, of course, noticed her panic and capitalized on it, “So, late at night, when some maniac breaks into the house, you have no way to call for help and your only chance for survival will be if you can outrun him for miles. _Great!”_

Sansa sighed, “I’ll call the phone company. I may have to wait a few weeks but I’m sure they’ll run a phone line. There are telephone poles on the main road… right?”

Arya nodded, “Yep. Might want to buy a gun though, in the meantime.”

“Who would come all the way out here to hurt me?”

“Umm… have you ever watched a horror movie? A single woman living alone in the middle of nowhere… you’re a living breathing cliché, Sansa!”

Sansa groaned, “I’ll keep a baseball bat with me, or a crowbar. You know I don’t like guns.”

“Okay… tell me that when some escaped convict decides to hunker down here until the search is over.”

“Arya, there aren’t any prisons around here.”

“Have you checked?”

“Well, no…”

“Wow… how have you survived this long?” Arya glanced around while shaking her head, “I don’t think you have TV connection here either.”

“Maybe there is an antenna?”

“ _Maybe?_ San – did you even see this place before buying it?”

“Of course!”

Arya shook her head, “Whatever… wanna take me on the tour?”

“Sure!” Sansa offered brightly, glad her sister was seemingly done criticizing for a while.

Sansa didn’t tell her she hadn’t done much inspecting upstairs either, just a cursory glance to confirm there were, in fact, four bedrooms and one bathroom.

Arya nodded as Sansa showed her each bedroom, “Well, they’re good-sized. At least plenty of room to crash here when we all come over. Then again, since this place doesn’t have TV, we will _never_ come over…”

“Very funny… and here’s the bathroom,” Sansa extended her hand to show off the black and white tiled room.

“Wow, indoor plumbing?!” Arya smacked her cheeks in mock surprise.

“Yeah, but there’s an old outhouse in the yard, too. Isn’t that awesome?!”

Arya looked aghast, “Um… a small, rickety building sitting over a hole that goes down to the center of the earth? Yeah, it’s _awesome…_ ”

“Alright, smart ass. Help me bring the rest of the stuff inside. I’ll make you a grilled cheese sandwich.”

“You mean you have electricity?”

“Of course! I mean, I didn’t call to have it turned on yet, but yes, there is electricity. The stove is propane, though.”

“Of course it is… so if you’ve got no electricity, how are you keeping the food cold?”

“I brought a cooler with some basics – cheese, water, apples, butter, eggs.”

Arya huffed, “Whatever, let’s get this over with so I can get back to the 20th century.”

The sisters unpacked Sansa’s cherished belongings over the rest of the afternoon. After some initial grumbling Arya was in good spirits, parodying Sansa as she put clothes in the master bedroom closet sorted by color, then organized books on the bookshelf by publication date rather than alphabetically.

At dusk Sansa went about the house lighting candles and lanterns while Arya stared at her as if she had three heads. Finally, it seemed, her sister had enough of the primitive lifestyle, “Alright, I feel my life is in danger staying here after dark. Why don’t you come sleep at our place until the power is turned on?”

“Arya, I’m not afraid of the dark,” Sansa rolled her eyes, “Besides, I can’t wait to wake up with the sunrise tomorrow and get to work!”

“San, I’m serious. You don’t even have a phone. Forget about axe murderers, what if you fall down the stairs or trip and break your arm? It is really _not safe_ to be here without a phone.”

Sansa couldn’t contain her smirk, “Worried about me?”

“Eww, no. Just… ya know, mom and dad will be devastated if you die at the foot of your stairs.”

“Then come check on me in the morning.”

“Drive forty-five minutes before my shift? No thank you.”

“Fine, then send Gendry, or call Robb or Bran or Rick… send someone to do a welfare check!”

“ _Or_ you could just come home!”

Sansa couldn’t explain why the idea of even a few more nights away from the house was unbearable to her, but it was. This place had already supplanted every other home she’d ever lived in. The house on Baker Street she lived in with her parents, Robb and Arya before Bran came along. The big house on River Rd where her parents still lived, the house Sansa lived from age six to age eighteen when she left for college. And certainly the two apartments she’d lived in for two years apiece after graduating – the first shared with two roommates, the second all by herself.

Sansa said no more but Arya seemed to recognize she was immoveable on this matter.

“Fine,” Arya groaned, “just… don’t fall down the stairs.”

Sansa rolled her eyes but showed her appreciation for Arya’s reticent concern by giving her a tight hug.


	2. Cough Syrup

Sansa intended to start writing first thing in the morning, but the serenity of nature called her outside. She wandered the perimeter of the yard, marveling at how much property she owned.

When she came upon a crop of wildflowers at the woods’ edge she gasped in delight. They were white and yellow and would look beautiful in contrast to the dark wood of the kitchen. She picked a bouquet and ran back inside eagerly, only to have to root through one of the few unpacked boxes to find a vase. She went to fill it at the sink, only to be reminded that without power the well pump wouldn’t work.

_Okay, definitely need to get in town today to call the power company and the telephone company._

She wandered back outside, pleased to find an old hand-pump on the east side of the house. It took some elbow grease but eventually she got water to come out – first a reddish brown but eventually clear and clean. She drank straight from the pump – the water was cool and refreshing, without any traces of chlorine like city water was known for. She filled the vase, proud to have accomplished some small task, and went back inside to set it down on the kitchen table while she retrieved eggs and butter from the cooler.

She hummed to herself as the egg sizzled sweetly in the cast iron pan. She felt energized, happy, and ready to get to work.

Just as she flipped the egg, she heard a crash behind her, and turned to find the vase had shattered on the floor. She stared at it, mouth agape, in utter confusion. How had it fallen off the table? She was certain she placed it in the center, not anywhere near the edge. She ran a hand along the table, expecting to detect some slope, but it was level as far as she could tell. In her haste she must have placed it clumsily near the edge; there was no other explanation. She turned off the burner and set about sweeping up the mess, taking great care to make sure every tiny shard was collected and dumped into the metal trash bin along with the flowers.

Feeling slightly disheartened she decided to eat her egg quickly then drive into town. Getting power needed to be a priority, or else she’d be bathing outside using the hand pump.

From a payphone outside the grocery store she called information, who put her through to the utility. A woman whose voice was husky but kind answered with a greeting she’d clearly recited a hundred times a day.

“Hi, my name is Sansa Stark. I’ve just moved in to 19 County Road B, and I need to get my power turned on.”

The woman seemed to be rifling through a book, “Okay, dear. I’ll have someone out on Monday.”

“Monday? But today’s Friday.”

“Right. The crews don’t work on weekends except in case of emergency.”

“Well, I have no power and I’m living there… isn’t that kind of emergency?” Sansa politely inquired.

“I mean in the case of an outage, hon.”

Sansa sighed, “I understand. What time Monday?”

“I have you in between 12 and 5, dear. Would you like dispatch to call when the technician is on his way?”

“No, I don’t have a phone. I’ll be home all day, so it’s fine.”

“No phone and no power? Sheesh… you couldn’t _pay_ me to stay there for the weekend.”

Sansa groaned, “Well, mankind survived millions of years without either, I’m sure I can survive a weekend.”

“Good for you, dear,” the woman spoke with only a tinge of skepticism.

“Thank you. Have a nice day.”

Sansa hung up and headed inside the store to pick up an extra bag of ice since her cooler would be needed longer than anticipated. As soon as she walked in, every set of eyes flocked to her with wary curiosity. Sansa smiled and headed to the dry goods aisle where she found instant coffee and sugar cubes, then back to the dairy case for some light cream.

Deciding she didn’t want to live on eggs, cheese, and apples all weekend she grabbed a can of soup and a bag of pretzels. Near the checkout aisles a bag of cherry licorice caught her eye, so by the time she was ready to get in line her arms were struggling to contain all the items.

An old man smiled and stepped aside to allow her to cut in front of him, “Here, Miss. Looks like you have your hands full!”

The man laughed at his wordplay as he began grabbing items from her arms and placing them on the belt. She offered a self-deprecating smile.

“You must be new around here.”

“Yes, just moved in yesterday.”

“Oh yeah? Whereabouts?”

“Uh, an old farmhouse, about ten miles from here on County Road B.”

The man’s smile dropped, “The one that’s been on the market for five years?”

“Umm… I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Stone house with the big elm out back and the dirt driveway?”

“Yeah, that’s the one.”

The man smiled but something about it looked pitying rather than friendly. Sansa considered inquiring as to what he knew of the property but wasn’t ready to let her happy bubble be burst by finding out what issues the house had that left it sitting on the market for so long.

Sansa paid the bill and thanked the cashier for fitting everything into one sturdy paper bag. She turned to the old man, “Well, thanks for your help. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

The old man nodded but became suddenly fascinated with watching the cashier ring up his items. Only after Sansa turned to head toward the exit did she feel two sets of eyes on her, but she didn’t look back. Small town folk were widely known to be skeptical of newcomers. They likely thought she was some yuppie hoping to stake a claim on their quiet town then attract a bunch of her yuppie friends to move to the area, turn it into some hip destination. Of course, things didn’t really work like that, but the fear of strangers coming to town to disrupt their way of life ran deep in these folks. They liked to live at a slower pace. They liked their town population to never exceed a number that would make remembering each resident’s name an impossibility.

Sansa wasn’t here to disrupt any apple carts. She wanted to blend in seamlessly, adopt the simple and unhurried way of life these rural towns offered. She would spend almost every day locked up in her house, typing away on her next novel, but hoped that within a few months the local business owners and employees would know her by both face and name.

She stopped at the gas station on her way back home to buy a map of the local area. She asked the pock-marked cashier for directions to the police station, purely as a precaution in case of a serious emergency. She learned it was only one turn and a quarter mile from the grocery store.

Walking into the store with her bag of ice and bag of groceries, Sansa inhaled deeply the smell of old wood and musk, “I’m home!” she called out with a smile.

A half hour later she was at her typewriter with a steaming cup of instant coffee made palatable only by copious amounts of cream and sugar.

It took only minutes to lose herself in the world of her latest novel. A gothic romance about forbidden love, it was by no means a new concept, but it had plenty of twists. For one, the main characters weren’t some lovestruck teenagers divided by social class, they were a man and woman separated by nearly two decades. The woman was widowed at age thirty-eight. She hires a twenty-two-year-old steward to run her estate, only to fall in love with him – a love he reciprocates. Given her station in society, however, they must keep their relationship a secret to avoid scandal.

Eventually her young lover tires of hiding their relationship and begins acting reckless and possessive. Her love for him is deep and well-established, but he seems to have changed. The reader is left to wonder whether he is a kind man who is merely buckling under the pressure of a hidden affair with an older woman, or if he is truly unhinged. At times he is passionate, lurking to pull her into a dark alcove and ravage her while guests sip tea two rooms down the hall. Other times he is melancholy, speaking cryptically to her when she asks what’s wrong.

Strang things also begin happening around the estate. Her prized mare, gifted to her by her late husband, dies unexpectedly. Certain possessions go missing. She gets the feeling she is being watched even when she is alone in a room. But to all the other household staff the steward is capable, hard-working, and congenial. She is the only one who sees this shadowy side of him, and it leaves her questioning her sanity, especially in light of the guilt she harbors for moving on with another man so quickly after her husband’s death.

“Sansa!”

Sansa jumped in her chair as her name was shouted from the front porch. With a hand over her heart she turned to find Bran peering in the screen.

She let out a long sigh of relief before padding over to open the door, “Hi, you startled me!”

Bran chuckled, “I called your name three times. You must have been really deep in thought.”

“I was, sorry… just let yourself in next time.”

Bran wiped his feet on the small throw rug and stepped inside, letting his eyes immediately wander, “Wow… I thought Arya was exaggerating but this is… wow…”

Sansa laughed, “Yes, it’s primitive and simple and old and I _love_ it.”

Bran smiled warmly; he was always the most understanding and least judgmental of her siblings, “It’s totally you, Sansa.”

“Thanks! Uh, can I offer you a shitty cup of coffee, or some water… I can make you a cheese sandwich or scrambled eggs or…”

“Nah, it’s fine. I just wanted to stop by and see the place. I have a class in two hours, so I can’t stay long.”

“Oh… just here for a welfare check?” Sansa raised her brow.

“Yeah… Arya said she slept horribly last night imagining you here all by yourself.”

“You know, all this worrying about others really conflicts with her ‘don’t give a shit’ attitude.”

“Tell me about it. So… get the power on yet?”

“Nope. Monday afternoon. I’m okay with roughing it though.”

“Oh… Mom told me to tell you pot roast on Sunday.”

“Okay… maybe I’ll come.”

Bran snorted, “She also told me to tell you it isn’t an invitation, it’s a summons.”

Sansa chuckled, “Alright. Tell her I’ll be there.”

Bran wandered into the kitchen, inspecting with casual interest. He nodded, “It’s nice. Really, San.”

“Thanks, Bran.”

He nodded, “But I agree with Arya on one thing… Get a phone in here, _ASAP_.”

...

The exhaustion of moving had Sansa asleep before her head hit the pillow the previous nights, but Saturday night was a different story entirely. Her euphoria at owning her own house – her _dream_ house – was waning every time she had to use the outhouse since the power wasn’t turned on yet, which meant no power to the well pump. Or when she ate some form of eggs at each meal. Or when the wind rattled the shutters at night.

Or when she heard inexplicable creaks in the floorboard, usually when she was working or lying in bed…

Or when she could _swear_ she saw someone out of the corner of her eye…

She cursed Arya for putting thoughts into her head that some deranged serial killer would come upon her. She cursed the woman at the power company who made it sound like Sansa was either really brave or really stupid for spending all weekend in a house without phone or electricity.

When it was after midnight and sleep had not claimed her, Sansa resorted to desperate measures: a teaspoon of cough syrup. She washed the bitter taste masquerading as cherry down with a sip of water and went back to bed, knowing that her eyelids would soon become heavy.

She focused on the next day. She planned to spend the morning working on the gardens around the perimeter of the house that had been sorely neglected. She’d clear out the weeds and later would stop at the nursery for plants and flowers on her way to her parents for dinner. She planned to fill the gardens with color – vibrant yellows, pinks, purples, and greens. Perhaps those lilies that were her favorite, which came in deep purple, delicate peach, sunshine yellow, and velvety crimson.

_The flowers will make the house look cheerful… so the next visitor I get won’t look at me like I’ve moved into a mortuary._

The cough syrup had started to work; Sansa felt warm and relaxed as she drifted into peaceful twilight.

_“Leave.”_

Sansa sat up clutching the blanket to her chest. She looked around her bedroom, lightly illuminated by moonbeams. No one was there. She could have sworn someone just whisper-shouted in her ear the word “leave” but there was no one in her room. If anyone had entered the bedroom or even ascended the stairs, she’d have heard it. The creaky floorboards were unforgiving.

She laid back and took a calming breath. She had almost been asleep when she heard it; clearly it was her imagination, or the beginnings of a dream perhaps. She often jolted awake with the sensation of falling just before sleep. She thought it was strange but when she shared a bedroom with Arya, her little sister told her it happened to her as well.

Still, it was enough to unsettle her. The momentum toward sleep was lost. Sansa tossed and turned not because she couldn’t get comfortable, but because stillness seemed ill-advised.


	3. Pepper Spray

With grim determination Sansa moved to the back of the house. She’d already pulled the weeds on the front and east sides of the house. She was tired and sweaty and dirty, but she recognized her compulsive nature propelled her to continue, albeit less gracefully. She was now yanking weeds and grasses carelessly, leaving behind roots that would no doubt spring back to life in a matter of weeks.

_No matter, I’ll borrow Mom’s tiller, then I’ll be able to simply collect the roots from the loose soil._

Tilling, of course, wasn’t an easy job. Perhaps she’d rope Rick into it in exchange for a six-pack. Teenage boys would do anything for beer.

Giving herself permission to be sloppy, Sansa let her mind wander to her story. She often thought through the story in her mind, usually while doing some menial task like washing dishes, driving, or folding laundry. It made it so when she sat in front of her typewriter, she only had to choose the right words and not agonize over plot details.

Inspired by her own unsettling experience, Sansa imagined the female protagonist – Rochelle – lying in bed one night during a thunderstorm. She hears something in the corner, but chalks it up to the wind. When a bolt of lightning illuminates the room, she confirms that no one is there, and breathes a sigh of relief. Minutes later, as she is starting to feel the lull of sleep, another flash illuminates the room and reveals her young lover sitting in a wingback chair in the corner. She gasps and fumbles to light her bedside lantern, only to turn back and find the chair empty. She wonders if she had dreamed it, or if the lightning made figures out of innocent shadows. Just as she has convinced herself it was nothing, she hears…

“Miss?”

Sansa leapt up quickly on feet that had gone numb and nearly fell if it weren’t that strong hands grasped her arms.

The man staring back at her was wide-eyed with fright at her jumpy reaction.

Sansa shook her head, using a dirty glove to wipe sweat from her brow then cursing herself for it, “I’m sorry, you startled me.”

The man breathed out a relieved chuckled, “You startled me back!”

Sansa smiled, “I guess we’re even. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” the man pointed to a badge he wore on a lanyard around his neck, “I’m Paul with LP&L. I’ve come to turn on your power.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, “Well, that’s great, but I thought you were coming tomorrow.”

He nodded, “I checked my schedule for the upcoming week and saw your address for tomorrow afternoon... Wish dispatch had told me Friday, I would’ve come by after all my other jobs were done.”

“Oh, that’s quite alright. But I’m still not sure why you’re here today.”

“Felt bad for whoever was living here without power,” Paul smiled, but it did not meet his eyes.

“Wow, you came out on your day off?”

“Don’t worry, miss. It lightens my load for tomorrow. I only live about twenty minutes from here, so it’s no inconvenience.”

“Twenty minutes?”

Paul laughed, “You must be from the city… out here in the country twenty minutes it nothing.”

Sansa gave a self-deprecating eyeroll, “Guilty as charged.”

Paul nodded, “Well, I just need your permission to access the meter, then I’ll be done in all of about one minute.”

“Of course!” Sansa beamed at Paul, happier than he could know that tonight she’d not be sleeping in the dark. She could use a nightlight and perhaps play a radio on low to ward off the creepy noises of an old house.

She led him to the meter, which she’d found herself just this morning while tending the garden. True to his word, Paul was done in about a minute. Sansa invited him in for a snack; it was the least she could do after he came here on his day off. She wondered if he would get paid for the job or his time.

They entered through the mudroom. Sansa flipped the switch in the kitchen and watched as the globe light fixture in the center of the ceiling flickered to life. She clapped with giddiness, and Paul chuckled at her reaction.

“Do you know where your electrical panel is, miss?”

Sansa scrunched her face into an ‘ _I probably should know that, but don’t’_ expression. Paul laughed again, “Alright, let’s start with the cellar.”

Sansa led the way, glad that Paul produced a flashlight. There was no switch at the top of the stairs, only a pull chain lightbulb toward the center of the unfinished basement. Stone foundation walls were not hidden by sheet rock or even paneling. The floor was packed dirt, and Sansa briefly wondered how expensive it would be to have subfloor and linoleum put down. Or perhaps polished concrete. She’d have to talk to Jon about that.

Paul led her to the electrical panel in the rear corner of the house, “Alright, this is an old panel box, not that I’d expect anything different. Looks like the breakers have been labeled, so that’s good. Best you keep a flashlight at the top of the stairs. Old wiring and old panel box mean you’re going to trip breakers left and right. Microwave, hair dryer… anything with high amperage. Depends how many outlets connect to each breaker. You’ll want to make sure your microwave isn’t on the same breaker as the refrigerator, for instance.”

Sansa shrugged, “I don’t have microwave.”

Paul frowned, “Really? Wow, I don’t know how I’d live without mine.”

Sansa chuckled, “Yeah, that’s what everyone tells me, but I don’t trust that it isn’t filling my food with radiation.”

Paul hummed, “Never thought of that.”

“I’m sure it’s just me being paranoid. I appreciate the advice. I suppose same goes for the hair dryer – plug it in to an outlet that’s not on the same breaker as a bunch of lamps?”

Paul nodded, “Not a big deal if you trip a breaker, just come down here and flip it back toward the right.”

“Thanks, Paul! This is really helpful.”

He smiled sheepishly, “Just doing my job.”

“Your job was to turn the power on at the meter. I’m assuming the advice is a bonus, and I’ll take it! Now come on, I don’t have much since I’ve been living out of an ice chest, but I’ve got apples and cheddar cheese and pretzels. I mean, if you’re not in a rush to get out of here.”

Paul beamed from ear to ear, “Thanks, miss. That would be great. And I’m in no rush, dinner at my parents but that’s not until five. I mean, not that I’d stay here until five…” he shoved his hands in his pockets. Sansa thought perhaps he found her pretty and it was making him act awkwardly.

She led him back to the kitchen, “I know that’s not what you meant. Besides, I have no TV, haven’t set up my record player yet, and all I have on my agenda today is to pull weeds. Pretty boring around here.”

Paul smiled more genuinely as he sat at her small kitchen table, scooting his chair back so he could lean against the wall and face Sansa while she retrieved the snacks.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Sansa squealed in delight then turned on the faucet. Nothing came out at first except for some groaning sounds, but eventually rusty water came through, and after a few minutes it ran crystal clear. She turned to Paul and joked, “Running water, am I a modern woman or what?!”

Paul laughed, “Now you just need a microwave.”

Sansa rolled her eyes good-naturedly. She would _not_ be buying a cancer box, no matter how convenient it was.

“Mind if I ask something, miss?” Paul looked toward her meekly.

“Sure, but you can call me Sansa,” she took the seat across from him with a cutting board, paring knife, apple and a large chunk of cheddar cheese.

Paul blushed, “Okay, Sansa. I was just wondering why a young woman would buy this old house in the middle of nowhere.”

Sansa nodded, “I get it… I suppose I just like the quiet, the privacy. You see, I’m an author, so—”

“Wow, really?! Anything I’d have read?”

“Probably not… um, I’ve written _Scarlet Sunset, Hero’s Dance,_ and _The Widow Bride…_ have you read any of them?”

Paul shook his head, “No, but I think I’ll look for them next time I’m at the library! Which one should I start with?”

“Hmm… Well, _Hero’s Dance_ has the most action. I think the other two appeal more to a female reader.”

Paul nodded, “Hero’s Dance. Got it.”

“You don’t… I mean… I wouldn’t be insulted if you didn’t read any of them. They’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”

Paul shrugged, “You kidding? Not every day we have someone famous in town.”

Sansa covered her cheeks with her hands, “Oh heavens no, I’m not even _remotely_ famous.”

“Miss… I mean, Sansa, if you’ve sold ten copies of a book, you’re already more famous than anyone else in town.”

Sansa held her hands up, “If you say so…”

Paul nodded, “I say so. Anyway, what genre do you write?”

Sansa plated some cheese and apple slices and passed it to him, “Historical fiction. Some Gothic stories.”

Paul’s eyes widened in surprise, “Wow… scary stories? No wonder you like this house…”

Sansa laughed until she realized he was implying more than just that the house was old, “What do you mean?”

Paul blushed again, “Oh nothing.”

“No, I want to know… is there some local lore associated with my house?”

Paul shrugged, “I mean, I don’t want to frighten you. Just rumors, anyway.”

“I won’t get frightened. I want to know.”

Paul leaned forward, “Look, it really is just rumor, okay? You know kids like to make up stories, then those stories get repeated and exaggerated.”

Sansa nodded and Paul reticently continued, “Well, rumor is there have been a lot of deaths here. Most recently five years ago, old man that lived here. But they say back in the day there were a lot of deaths here. The only one I really believe, would’ve been about eighty years ago. Man lived here alone and shot himself with his hunting rifle. Since he had no friends or family check in on him, they say it took a week before the body was found… mailman noticed the mail was piling up, found the door unlocked and entered. Man was dead in an armchair in the living room.”

Sansa’s hand flew to her mouth, “Oh my goodness!”

Paul nodded soberly, “Yeah. The reason I say that’s the story I believe is because my grandfather told me that his father was friends with the mailman. Heard every detail firsthand.”

“Wow… is your grandfather still alive?”

Paul smiled, “Yes ma’am… alive and kicking. Seventy-five going on sixteen.”

Sansa smiled, “So what are the other stories?”

Paul shrugged, “I don’t much remember the stories about before that happened, I only know that for eighty years the house has never been inhabited for more than a year by anyone who moves in. So it got a reputation for being haunted.”

“Well someone must have lived here for a while… it has indoor plumping and electric. Obviously, someone updated the house at some point.”

Paul nodded, “Yeah, guy who bought the place about thirty years ago. I know because this older gentleman I work with was the one who ran the line from the street.”

“But no telephone…”

“Yeah, I noticed that. Maybe the guy was a recluse, didn’t want to be bothered. Wanted the convenience of an indoor bathroom and electricity, but not the connection of a phone.”

Sansa smiled, “I can relate to that.”

“Really? Wow! If I couldn’t call Ma and Pops, or they couldn’t call me, I think I’d be worried sick all the time.”

Sansa groaned, “I’m going to get a phone. Just need to call tomorrow.”

Paul waved a hand, “Don’t worry about it. I’m friends with the dispatcher; I’ll call her personally and ask her to send someone ASAP.”

“Wow, Paul, that’s really sweet of you!”

He blushed again, “It’s nothing, really. Her husband and I are buddies… a real nice couple. In fact, if you feel the need to get out of the house, or just want to meet some of the people in town, I um…” he cleared his throat, “Well, you see, Ginny is real sweet, and she always has a book in her hand. You two could probably talk for hours. So if, umm… if you’d want to come with me some night to have dinner at their place, I’m sure—”

She felt the force of the pull but didn’t react in time to clamp her hand. The paring knife whipped out of her hand and across the table – a whir of silver and black that missed Paul’s head by inches and embedded itself in the wall next to him.

Sansa blinked at the knife in the wall, then down to her hand, then at Paul. He looked even more shocked, holding her glare for a few long moments before standing so abruptly that Sansa flinched. He ran out the back door, Sansa only a few steps behind him.

“Paul, I swear I didn’t do that on purpose. I… it just… I don’t know, but please believe me!”

Paul spun around looking more frightened than angry, “Look, miss, either you’re lying, in which case I don’t want to be anywhere near you, or you’re not lying, in which case I don’t want to be anywhere near this house.”

“But… but…” Her ineffective protest fell on deaf ears. Paul was already halfway to his work truck. She had to try again. She quickened her pace to catch up with him and grabbed him by the shoulder, “I swear I did not do that. I definitely didn’t do it intentionally. I’m so sorry, Paul.”

His eyes softened a bit, “Just be careful, miss.”

Then he was in the truck and pulling onto the road.

Sansa walked back to the house in a daze and entered with no small amount of trepidation.

…

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“You just did.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Fine. I was just wondering… do you believe in ghosts?”

Sansa and Arya were on kitchen duty while the rest of their family sat in the den letting their bellies digest copious amounts of mom’s pot roast and egg noodles.

Arya’s face split into a knowing grin, “Your house is haunted, isn’t it?”

“What? No! It’s… for a book I’m writing.”

Arya leaned against the fridge, arms crossed over her chest, “You want my opinion on the existence of ghosts… for a book you’re writing?”

Sansa huffed, “Alright, fine, I think my house might be haunted.”

Arya waved her hand to signal Sansa to go on. She told her about the noises she sometimes heard, and the feeling of someone touching her shoulder. She told her about the vase breaking but left out the knife incident; there was no way anyone would believe that. She didn’t need Arya thinking she hurled a kitchen knife at a kind man who came out on his day off to help her.

Arya shrugged, “Sounds like your mind is playing tricks on you.”

Sansa nodded, “Yeah… that’s what I was thinking, too.”

She returned to scrubbing the plates but could feel Arya’s eyes on her.

“What?”

“You’ve never believed in ghosts before,” Arya answered matter-of-factly.

“And I don’t believe in them now. Just… _curious_.”

“Mmm… get the phone line connected yet?”

“No, I’m calling tomorrow.”

“You didn’t even call yet?!”

“I’ve been busy!”

“Oh yeah, because those weeds couldn’t wait!”

“I have to drive to the gas station to use the payphone. No need to make a special trip.”

“Why didn’t you call when you called the power company?”

Sansa shrugged, “I just wasn’t thinking about it.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Of course you weren’t. I guess I’m the only one concerned for your safety.” Arya craned her neck to make sure no one was about to come into the kitchen, “I got something for you.”

She reached into her backpack which was slung over a kitchen chair and pulled out a small black tube. Sansa studied it but had no idea what it was.

“It’s pepper spray. Since you’re all anti-gun, this is the next best thing. Keep it near you, especially at nighttime.”

“Where’d you get this?”

Arya shrugged, “I have my ways.”

“How does it work?”

Arya rolled her eyes again, “Well, as the name implies, you _spray_ it on someone who is attacking you. Preferably in the eyes.”

“And… it kills them?”

“No, just incapacitates them so you can get away. So your conscience can stay clear.”

Sansa lifted her brows; she couldn’t imagine spraying someone in the face with something that would cause them severe pain.

Arya must have noticed her hesitance. She shoved the can into Sansa’s hand, “Just take it. Hopefully you never have to use it.”

Sansa nodded slowly.

“Oh, just keep in mind it doesn’t work on ghosts,” Arya winked.


	4. Whiskey

Sansa sat at her typewriter Monday afternoon, but no words poured through her heart onto the blank page.

She had spent the morning tending to the garden in the front of the house – planting the flowers she had picked up Sunday afternoon. The sun was warm and filled her with a feeling of comfort. Ideas for her story ran through her mind freely then, but now she couldn’t get a single letter to press to the paper. She was stuck.

She was also tired. She slept little the night before, even though the house was quiet and still.

Her mind wandered to the story Paul had told her of the death that allegedly occurred in this very living room where she now sat at her desk.

Later she would not know what compelled her to do so, but she closed her eyes and tried to clear her mind. She invited… well, she wasn’t sure what she invited. An answer from the cosmos, perhaps. The wisdom of the walls around her, that saw everything but had no voice to speak of what they witnessed. She willed her ears to listen for any sound, but all she heard were birds chirping outside, and the occasional tinkling of the wind chime her mother gave her last night with a promise to bring another housewarming present when she and Sansa’s father came for a visit later this week.

A warm breeze tickled her cheek through the open window, seemingly beckoning her back outside even though she’d spent hours out there already today.

She put on her boots in the mudroom then walked outside, not knowing what she was looking for. She walked along the large backyard, realizing the grass was high and she’d need to buy a lawnmower. She checked her watch.

_Two o’clock… the stores in town should still be open._

She didn’t analyze why it was suddenly important to have a lawnmower, but she was grateful for the task as she climbed into her rust red station wagon and headed for the gas station.

The cashier gave her directions to the nearest farm supply store, and she pulled into the parking lot fifteen minutes later. The store was empty save for an old man behind a chest high counter near the front of the store. Sansa smiled at him then made her way through the store, loading needed items into her shopping cart as she went. Lightbulbs, flashlights, matches, lantern oil, and a box fan.

There were three lawnmowers on display and Sansa wasn’t sure what the difference was other than price. She chewed her lip as she considered each of them. One green, two red. One with a bag, two without. Those were the only differences she could discern, and she was ready to head to the front to ask for help when she turned to find the old man walking toward her, a generous smile revealing several missing teeth.

“Need some help, miss?”

Sansa chuckled, “That obvious? Yes, I need a lawnmower but have no idea which one is best.”

“How big’s your yard?”

“About two acres.”

The man blinked at her, “You mowing it yourself or have you a husband?”

If he were a younger man Sansa would wonder whether he was probing to find out whether she was single. As it were, she answered honestly, “Myself.”

The man clicked his teeth, “That’s a lot of lawn to mow. I’d recommend a riding lower, if it’s in your budget. If not, you’ll want to get self-propelled.”

“Is one of these self-propelled?”

The man pointed to the green mower, “This one. It’ll make the job a heck of a lot easier.”

Sansa nodded, “Then I guess I’ll take this one.”

“Well that was an easy sale!” the man smiled.

Sansa chuckled, “You said the magic word: _easier.”_

The man smiled as he went to retrieve a flat cart then helped Sansa load the box onto it.

“You know how to put one of these together?” he asked as they got back to the counter.

Sansa’s eyes widened, “It needs to be assembled?”

He snorted, “Not built from scratch, miss. Just connect the handle, the pull cord, and put gas in it, then you’re ready to go. Assume you’ve got a screwdriver?”

Sansa nodded, “I think I can handle that, though I suppose I need to buy a gas can, too.”

The man laughed heartily, “A city slicker, eh?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “I suppose that’s obvious, too.”

The man held his hands up in supplication, “Can’t help where you were born. I take it you recently moved to the area?”

Sansa nodded, “Yes. The farmhouse on County Road B. Are you familiar with it?”

The man’s smile fell away like a pair of invisible hands pulled down on his cheeks. It took him a moment to respond, “I’m familiar.”

Sansa sighed, “I suppose you think it’s haunted…”

“Not think… _know_.”

Sansa gasped, “You’ve been there?”

He shook his head, “Everyone knows that place is haunted. Don’t need to step foot in it.”

“Well, I don’t subscribe to rumors, and I don’t believe in ghosts or any other such phenomena,” she spoke assuredly but wondered why, for the first time in her life, she doubted her own words.

“Suit yourself, miss. I’ll start ringing you up, the gas cans are in aisle two,” the old man waved a hand nonchalantly in the general vicinity of aisle two.

Sansa felt compelled to argue her point, but it was clear any such effort would be lost on this superstitious old man. Instead she grabbed the first gas can she saw, paid for her purchase, and walked out while ignoring the man not-so-subtly shaking his head as if she were a simpleton.

She had a couple hours of daylight left by the time the lawnmower was assembled and Sansa decided to tackle as much of the yard as she could, saving the rest for tomorrow. She started at the back-left corner of the property line, working side to side in lines that weren’t quite straight despite her best efforts. Robb, Jon, and Dad always made mowing the grass look easy. Now she realized it was only easy because they had man muscles, and she had the arm strength of Gumby.

After only a few minutes she was sweating and knew later her comparison to Gumby would be most apt as her legs and arms would feel like rubber bands, but she pressed on. She knew what she was getting in buying an old farmhouse with lots of property (and ghosts, apparently). She couldn’t give up as soon as things got tough, and she couldn’t let mowing the lawn be a thing that took up three days of her time.

She let her mind wander to her novel as she worked back and forth, gradually making her way closer to the house with progress that kept her motivated. She was so distracted that she almost didn’t notice when the lawnmower bumped going over something in the yard.

Afraid she had ruined her new investment, she stopped the mower and looked to the ground. She found a low concrete border, probably surrounding what was once a vegetable garden. Deeming it safe to ride the mower over the low threshold, she continued on her task, only realizing once she was done that the concrete was much too thick to have been a garden border. She stood staring at the large rectangle in the ground, partially obscured by grass and dirt. It took her a few minutes to realize a building must have sat here once upon a time – perhaps a shed or barn. It would make sense; the house was over a hundred years old – whoever built it had probably been a farmer or otherwise lived off the land and would need an outbuilding to store supplies or house animals.

She was glad to have made the discovery. Perhaps she could use the foundation to place a shed of her own; as it was the lawnmower would sit outside with only a canvas tarp shielding it from the elements.

The sun was low when she called it quits and headed into the house to make dinner.

_Damn. Forgot to get groceries now that I have a running refrigerator…_

Sansa scolded herself as she made yet another meal consisting of bread and cheese, unable to stomach anymore eggs. First thing tomorrow she would go to town and stock up on kitchen staples. For now, at least she ate in contentment knowing a hot shower awaited her sore muscles.

It took much too long for the water to warm, leaving Sansa to wonder if a new water heater was called for. _Another thing to ask Jon about._

When the water was finally hot, she stripped off her dirty clothes and hopped in, letting the water run over her matted hair. She faced the shower head and rinsed away sweat and grime from her face then let the hot water cascade to her tense shoulders and chest. She’d be sore tomorrow, she was sure; she wasn’t accustomed to gardening, lawnmowing, or virtually any other strenuous activity.

The thin vinyl shower curtain suddenly blew in and pressed against her skin. Sansa spun around, expecting to find someone on the other side, but through the translucent material she could discern no shapes or shadows. She slowly pulled back the curtain, heart racing, but the bathroom was empty. The door, however, was opened several inches. She was sure she had closed it, a habit she’d never lose after growing up with four siblings and a cousin, all male except for Arya.

_The doorknob must be loose… doesn’t latch all the way. Another item for Jon._

Sansa would have to bake lots of brownies and cook a big batch of meatballs. The items on her to-do list were already adding up to be an all-day affair for her _brousin_ Jon, who was a handyman.

She hastily washed her body, eager to get out of the shower where the sound of water splashing made her feel uneasy. Someone could have come into the house, perhaps even upstairs, and she would not have heard it.

_Alright, bring Arya’s pepper spray into the bathroom with you next time._

She knew she was being silly, paranoid even. In time she’d get used to the _quirks_ of the old house. The sounds of the house settling or the fifteen-year-old refrigerator kicking on. The doors that didn’t stay shut unless you locked them. The drafts that made candles flicker.

But she’d grow accustomed to all of it, over time, and then she’d be at ease. Her siblings would come over and jump when the furnace kicked on, and she’d laugh and reassure them there wasn’t a goblin living in the basement, just a heat source.

Tonight, though… tonight she would sleep with a lamp on.

…

Sansa woke with a gasp. The sheets beneath her were wet with perspiration. She’d had the most frightening dream, yet as she rolled to the other side of her queen bed, she couldn’t remember any of it other than fleeting images and sounds. A fire. A child’s voice screaming for help. A laugh. Even those few elements were already fleeing her mind, leaving behind a single word that echoed over and over as if it were a mantra she was involuntarily repeating…

_Burn._

_Burn._

_Burn._

_…_

Tuesday came and went in a haze. Sansa tried to write, tried to at least _think_ about writing, but she couldn’t. She felt an oppressive sense of melancholy, but that word wasn’t quite right... _Helplessness_ might be better. But it wasn’t for herself. It was a feeling of sympathy… the way one gets caught up in the dilemma of a movie character, and the feeling lingers long after the end credits roll.

It was a residue her heart had been coated in, and she couldn’t dispel it.

She ate only toast and tea – a late breakfast or early lunch – it was all she could stomach.

At midday she laid in bed, hoping a nap would make up for the lost hours of sleep the night before. It didn’t.

At dinnertime she ate a handful of pretzels and an apple. She’d never made it to the grocery store, having no energy to venture out. Instead she negotiated with herself. _I’ll get a good night sleep tonight and go first thing in the morning. Then I’ll come home and work on my novel._

It was a good plan. She poured herself a glass of whiskey. She never liked drinking it straight, but she had nothing to mix it with. _Add ginger ale to the shopping list._

She chugged it down quickly, shivered at the burning sensation, then went to bed. It was only 7:30 but she was eager to wake up with a new day ahead of her. There was nothing she could do tonight to be productive. No laundry to wash, no dishes to scrub, no words to put on paper.

The amber elixir must have done its job, because Sansa awoke around 2 AM without remembering falling asleep. The house was quiet, and she felt well rested enough that she didn’t promptly fall back asleep. She laid in bed listening to the windchimes dancing to the rhythm of the summer breeze, feeling said breeze blow gently against her face as she laid facing the window.

For perhaps the first time in days she felt a tranquility infused into the space, so much so that she convinced herself all the odd occurrences had been her mind playing tricks on her, assuming they didn’t have some very natural explanation.

The peacefulness seeped through the air into her very skin and bones, enveloping her like a warm blanket. Her eyelids became heavy, twitching with the last vestiges of wakefulness.

_“Trapped.”_

Sansa’s eyes popped open. Someone had whispered in her ear. _Trapped_ , they said.

It was not some trickery of the twilight. It was not a creak or groan somewhere in the house’s bones, nor a twinkle of the chimes mimicking a human voice. It was loud and clear, spoken by a very real mouth belonging to a very real person.

Sansa’s heart thudded within her chest. Someone was in her room; she could _feel_ it. She felt paralyzed not just by fear but by the knowledge that once she turned over and saw the intruder, he would make his move. He must have been watching her sleep, waiting for her to wake. He was taunting her, telling her she was trapped – that there was no escape.

Her mind raced through her options. A jump from the second story window would likely not kill her, but would it break her ankles? Would she even be able to get to the window and yank up the rusty screen before the attacker would be upon her?

 _Fight, then… but with what?_ She dared not look around; perhaps the man believed she was asleep. The lamp on her night table was the only thing that came to mind. Once again, fool that she was, she came upstairs without retrieving the can of pepper spray from her purse.

But the longer she lied in complete silence weighing her options, the more unlikely it seemed that someone had entered the house and made his way upstairs. She must have imagined it… Or it was the beginnings of a dream as she drifted into slumber.

She exhaled a shaky breath and turned slowly, eyes narrowed, to look toward the door…

The room was empty. The door was closed, just as she’d left it.

She exhaled loudly and collapsed on her back, exhausted by the adrenaline rush. She stared at the ceiling and chided herself silently for being a fool, for letting a few rumors and the secluded nature of her home wreak havoc on her mind. She would not let it happen again. Ghosts weren’t real, and even if they were, they couldn’t hurt the living. The only thing that could hurt her was a real, flesh-and-blood man, and she could take precautions against that. She could put deadbolts on both doors and be sure to lock the ground-floor windows each night. She could listen to Arya’s advice and buy a gun, as much as the idea intimidated her. She’d get a phone jack not just in the kitchen but also in her bedroom. She could get one of those fancy alarm systems she’d heard about. Or a guard dog. _Yes! A dog!_

She laughed at herself for not thinking of that sooner. She had dogs growing up but wasn’t allowed to have them at her last two apartments. As a girl she always felt safest when her dog Lady was curled up at the end of the bed.

_Okay, call phone company. Call Jon to see about installing better locks and handling the other things on my to-do list. Get groceries. Go to the animal shelter._

Once again, a feeling of purpose replaced her fear. Feeling completely in control of her life, she quickly found sleep once again.


	5. Pie

Sansa could make do without a new water heater or flooring in the basement. On Friday evening she watched Jon use his power drill to install deadbolts on both of her doors. He also fixed the broken locks on three of the windows and adjusted the bathroom doorknob. Last but not least he put a chain on her bedroom door that would be an extra failsafe in case the lock on the knob wasn’t enough.

Jon’s dark eyes frequently darted to her while he worked, and she knew a protective brother comment was coming her way. As they sat at her table to eat spaghetti and meatballs Jon made small talk for a while before Sansa finally rolled her eyes, “Jon, say what’s on your mind.”

He sighed, clearly relieved to have permission, “Did something happen? Did someone try to break in, or… something?”

Sansa shook her head rapidly, “No, nothing like that at all. I guess just being out here – remote, isolated, alone… my mind’s been thinking of all these things that _could_ happen. It’s a safe area, I don’t think there has been a murder in these parts for decades, but I just want to be extra vigilant.”

Jon nodded, “Good. I can say it makes me feel better.”

Sansa chewed her lip, “I thought I might also get a dog. And maybe… _maybe –_ a gun.”

Jon snorted out a laugh, “ _You?_ A gun?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Look, I’m not going to become a sharpshooter, but if someone gets in, you know the cops will take fifteen minutes to get here…”

Jon held his hands up in supplication, “I don’t disapprove… I just can’t picture you firing a gun. Or even holding a gun.”

Sansa wiggled her eyebrows, “You’re forgetting all those water gun battles we had in the backyard.”

Jon laughed, “A plastic green gun that squirts water? There’s a _bit_ of a difference.”

“Not the way Arya and Rick played!”

“That’s true… So what kind of gun would you get?”

Sansa shrugged, “I dunno, something small I guess.”

Jon shook his head, “Buy a shotgun. Aim isn’t as important since it shoots a spray. Plus anyone with a will to live will run when they hear the sound of a shot gun being cocked. You’ll probably never even need to fire it. And if you chicken out and can’t bring yourself to pull the trigger, at least you have a large, blunt object you can hit them with.”

“Wow… you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

Jon chuckled, “Yig has a shotgun. I made her buy it since sometimes I’m out of town on jobs and she’s alone for a night or two.”

“Aww…” Sansa crossed her hands over her heart, “You’re so protective of her. It’s cute.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “Don’t let _her_ hear that.”

“Ah yes, her fiery independent streak. It’s no surprise she and Arya butt heads. They’re so much alike.”

Jon shrugged, “Are you saying I married my little sister?”

Sansa scrunched her nose, “Yikes. It’s a good thing Arya didn’t inherit Mom’s red hair… people would really wonder…”

Jon laughed, “Speaking of Mom… has she been by yet?”

Sansa shook her head, “No. Her and Dad were going to come last night but Dad got stuck at the office. They’re coming tomorrow instead. I’m making pork chops. You’re welcome to come. Yig, too.”

Jon groaned, “I promised her we’d go car shopping tomorrow. Apparently, the old rust bucket doesn’t scream “professional”. She said I should use some of Grandpa Tully’s money to buy a new truck.”

“Not the worst idea. You’re really good at what you do, your truck should reflect that.”

“Did Yig tell you to say that? She said _literally_ the same exact words.”

“No,” Sansa snorted, “We’re just a pair of smart redheads you should _always_ listen to.”

Jon rolled his eyes, “Well on _that_ note… thanks for dinner, San. Don’t be afraid to call if you need anything… oh and if you do end up buying a gun, bring Theon. He’ll know what kind to get, and how much you should pay. He can also teach you how to shoot.”

Sansa groaned. Theon was Robb and Jon’s friend, and a shameless flirt. He’d no doubt teach her how to shoot, using a very hands-on way to correct her posture. He was harmless but crass.

Sansa nodded, “I’ll do that. Thanks for everything you did. I’ll try to learn how to do some of this stuff myself, I know it’s a trek for you to drive out here.”

“Don’t sweat it. It’s nice out here. Next time I’ll bring Yig.”

“You better! Now drive safe, these roads are really dark and windy.”

“Always!” Jon winked.

The cousins who were more like siblings embraced and Sansa stood on her porch as Jon hopped up into his truck, giving the horn two taps as he drove down the driveway.

Sansa smiled as she watched his taillights disappear down the road. Though she never admitted it, Jon was one of her favorites. He, like Bran, wasn’t judgmental. He was protective of her, just like Robb, but he also trusted her to make wise decisions on her own. Robb seemed to take his position as eldest of 6 siblings (though he was only older than Jon by two months) too seriously. He at times acted more like a parent than a brother to all of them. Sansa could relate to some extent – she and Robb were so much older than Bran and Rick, and so much more responsible than Arya, that at times it did feel like being the parent. _No, you can’t go swimming during a thunderstorm. It’s 30 degrees out, you need to wear more than a t-shirt._ But that Sansa was a recipient of Robb’s parental instincts was annoying. She had always been responsible and mature for her age, but Robb simply lumped her in with all the younger siblings. Jon on the other hand – he was always there for Sansa, but he didn’t hover or pry.

Sansa shivered and rubbed her upper arms. The wind had picked up and though today was hot, a cool breeze heralded an approaching storm. Praying she wouldn’t lose power Sansa turned to head back inside only to be met by the door slamming shut in her face. Literally in her face; another inch and it would have hit her in the nose.

Sansa pushed open the door, feeling the slight resistance that meant she’d left her back door open, turning the house into something of a wind tunnel.

She locked up both doors and all windows and brought one of the lanterns and a box of matches up to her room. She would not let a power outage and the responsible storm drive her to the brink of sanity tonight. _Nope, not tonight._

…

Never were the differences between Ned and Catelyn Stark as obvious as when it came to matters of aesthetic taste. Sansa’s father fell in love with the primitive charm of Sansa’s house instantly. Her mother walked around wearing a too-tight smile that didn’t meet her eyes as she took in the outdated wallpaper in the kitchen and scuffed hardwood floors throughout the house. Her dad said things like “peaceful” and “rustic” in a sincere tone; her mom said things like “potential” and “quaint” in a forced tone.

Her father had always been more at ease surrounded by nature. He, Robb, Jon, and Theon would spend hours and sometimes days on hunting trips. Her mother, on the other hand, embraced every luxury within their upper middle class means. She was a timeless beauty with classic taste that incorporated small touches of modern style so that she never looked dated. She appreciated some antiquity, but not an entire houseful of it.

As they ate dinner her dad went on and on about how he couldn’t wait to go hunting in the woods behind Sansa’s house. She showed him the map she’d bought, and he was pleased to see the land behind her went on for miles until it reached civilization.

Her mother clearly had held her tongue long enough, “I don’t know, Sansa. The energy in this place is just so… _masculine_.”

Sansa nearly dropped her fork. She knew her mother was referring to the utilitarian furnishings, but the word _masculine_ reverberated in her ears, putting a label on what Sansa had been feeling for over a week now. She had chalked it up to the assumption that any living intruder would be a man, but now she knew the feeling went deeper than that. In all the odd sensations she’d felt, like a featherlight touch on her shoulder while she toiled in the kitchen, or the two times she’d heard a voice speak to her, it was always a male energy. When she allowed herself to consider the possibility that she had a ghost, she called it a “him” in her mind. When she thought about her house, she thought of it in a male sense. It wasn’t a “she” or “her” like a sailor would refer to his boat, or a gearhead to his car.

Sansa forced a smile to her lips, “I’ll add some feminine touches, don’t worry.”

Her mother returned the smile, “Flowers will do wonders, and some artwork on the walls.”

Sansa nodded but had a vague notion that flowers and colorful accents would not be welcomed by the house.

_The house._

This time it was her own thought that echoed, putting voice to something she’d only felt in passing sensations. It felt as if the house itself had a _will_ … an awareness. She’d noticed it the day she saw the listing and realized it again when she felt compelled to say farewell or hello every time she left or returned.

_I’ve been talking to a house. A male house. What the hell is wrong with me!?_

The evening passed pleasantly enough once Sansa was able to shake away her odd musing. Her parents gave warm parting hugs before piling into their sedan and giving her two taps of the horn, just like Jon had. _A Stark family tradition_.

Standing alone in the driveway Sansa looked back up at the house, searching for evidence of sentience. Just as her eyes fell on one of the bedroom windows the curtain moved. It was slight but noticeable.

It should have sent her running for the hills but instead found her bounding into the house like a woman with an axe to grind.

“Hello!?” she called. There was no response.

“I know you’re in here!”

No response. Sansa felt foolish for talking to… whatever or whomever she thought was listening. But she reminded herself that either no one was there to witness her foolishness, or someone _was_ there, in which case it wasn’t foolish. With this rationale she called out again, “Can you show yourself?”

_Idiot! Do you really want the ghost of some dead guy to show himself?!_

She slowly headed upstairs and into the bedroom whose curtain she’d seen moving. She flicked the switch, but the room was empty save the twin bed and three-drawer dresser that had come with the house. In an act of bravery or stupidity she yanked open the closet – also empty save for a few hangers and a satchel of potpourri.

Sansa repeated the action in each of the other bedrooms. All were empty, with no sign that anyone had been in there recently. She stood in the hallway chastising herself with an eyeroll when she noticed an access door in the ceiling. Obviously, it led to an attic, but Sansa hadn’t noticed it until now. _Did the realtor even mention it?_

Perhaps she wasn’t afraid of the dark, but even she wouldn’t go into an attic at nighttime. No way, no how.

Needing a distraction she headed back downstairs to lock up the house and clean the kitchen. The warm sudsy water on her hands was soothing in a totally irrational way. It would ward off no foe – physical or paranormal – but she willingly let herself get lost in the joy of unthinking as she washed the plates, utensils, and cups, then scrubbed at the baked-on mess of a casserole dish that would have been better off soaking overnight.

_“LEAVE!”_

Sansa spun around, clutching the sponge like it was a weapon. It was the voice – the same voice she had heard twice before. She was unsurprised but no less frightened to find no one there. Dropping the sponge to the floor she raced upstairs and right into her bed, pulling the covers up over her head so she was cocooned in cotton. Her heart pounded in her chest. It hadn’t been her imagination. It simply _couldn’t_ be. She heard the voice so clearly. It was a deep voice, a man’s voice. It had a brittle quality to it, like the rasping lilt of a blues singer. It sounded _desperate_. Or perhaps annoyed, exasperated.

Sansa didn’t care if there was someone in the house. She didn’t care if it was haunted. She squeezed her eyes shut and willed sleep to claim her. In the daylight she could make sense of this. But in the night, there was nothing for her to discover that wouldn’t terrify her. She wouldn’t lift the covers, even if it took her hours to fall asleep. She wouldn’t. She wouldn’t. She couldn’t…

That night Sansa dreamt again – the frightening dream filled with screaming and laughing. When she woke, she could remember the faintest details, but the recollection was vague and blurry. She thought she’d seen flames, and a boy with dark hair. Or maybe it was a man. The dream residue was sad, not scary. Or not _only_ scary. She remembered an overwhelming feeling of wanting to save someone but didn’t know who – or from what.

She woke with the sun and a renewed conviction to find out whatever she could. If this… _specter_ … could communicate with her, then she could communicate with it. But that didn’t mean she knew how.

She sat in the living room with a cup of coffee, and, as she’d done once before, tried to clear her mind and slow her heart. After a few minutes she spoke gently, “Who are you?”

She left her mind open, but no answer pervaded her senses from the ether.

“What is your name?”

Nothing.

“Did you die here?”

Nothing.

“Are you angry that I’m here?”

Nothing.

“Are you… are you afraid?”

Nothing.

Sansa sighed, “You once told me to leave. Why?”.

Nothing.

“Why must I leave?”

Nothing.

“You don’t want me in your house?”

Nothing.

“Will some harm come to me if I don’t leave?”

_“Trapped.”_

She gasped again, “What does that mean? How can I become trapped? I can leave whenever I want. I have a car. I have money.”

Her voice was pleading, desperate. Did this spirit only know two words? _Leave_ and _trapped_?

She shook her head in frustration, “Can you… can you say more?”

Nothing.

“Answer me!”

Nothing.

She stood up, standing toe to toe with the no one that wasn’t there, “I’m not leaving! I bought this house! If you want me to leave, you’ll need to tell me why!”

She crossed her arms impertinently, but no more was said. Minutes passed, maybe a half hour, while she stood on the braided carpet waiting for a ghost to speak to her.

With a huff she eventually plopped down at her desk chair, intent to force herself into productivity after too many days of willful distraction. She closed her eyes, evicting all thoughts of the ghost and inviting Rochelle and her lover, Tristan, into her mind. The next scene to write took place in the gardens of the estate. Rochelle goes there sometimes and speaks to her dead husband, finding comfort in the foliage that the man loved to walk amongst. She has become convinced it is her husband’s spirit haunting her, not some cruel prank of Tristan or anyone else. She goes to the gardens that day to apologize to him for taking a lover, for confessing that she still loves him.

The words began marching to the forefront of Sansa’s mind. She smiled to herself and opened her eyes, prepared to let the words flow freely through her fingers, but instead she stared at the page ready to bear her tale.

Three letters were on the otherwise blank page. The first three letters of her name. S-A-N. Nothing else. She didn’t remember typing them, or even hearing the clicking of the keys. She smiled again. It was the ghost. _Her_ ghost. He was trying to write her name.

“Keep going,” she whispered, then she closed her eyes. She thought about the story some more, desperate to repeat the process that somehow created a bridge between their worlds. It sounded hokey, but she had no other explanation. She let several minutes pass but when she opened her eyes there was nothing else there. Her name wasn’t even finished.

She slammed her hand down, “Fuck you, asshole!”

She stormed out of the house with no destination in mind, but only a couple miles down the road she knew where she would go...

...

She found the old man at the farm supply store. She walked right up to him, aware but not caring that her steps were aggressive.

“Can you close your store for an hour?” she asked, though it sounded like a command.

The man eyed her curiously before nodding slowly.

“Good. I’m buying you breakfast. Are there any decent restaurants around here?”

He nodded again, then led her by the elbow to the front door. He flipped around the ‘closed’ sign and locked the door, then gestured for Sansa to hop into his truck. No longer afraid of any human foes, and certainly none that were bent-backed old men, Sansa obeyed.

The diner that he took her to offered a limited menu but Sansa didn’t care. She ordered a coffee and a piece of apple pie. The old man ordered scrambled eggs and orange juice.

“Pie for breakfast?” he asked, half amused, half mocking.

Sansa shrugged, “No worse than a muffin.”

He nodded, “Suppose not. Suppose you have questions.”

Sansa nodded, “Tell me everything you know about my house.”

He snorted, “Only _know_ a little.”

“Then tell me what you know and also what you heard.”

He leaned back but kept his hands firmly around his coffee mug, “I _heard_ the original family that lived in that house was marred by tragedy. I know that in the nearly sixty years since I’ve lived here, the house has been vacant more than it’s been inhabited. I know of three different owners. First a young family – husband, wife and three kids. They moved out before a turn of the moon. Not sure they were even unpacked. Next was an older fellow, bought it and had the place fixed up some, but never lived in it. Bought it as an investment opportunity, I guess you’d say. He rented it out once, to a young couple new to town. Fully furnished. They up and left in three weeks, didn’t even ask for their deposit back, or so I heard…”

Sansa nodded, “And the last owner? I heard the last owner died.”

“Another older fellow. Don’t know why he wanted all that house, except perhaps ‘cause it was cheap… he stuck around the longest. Eight months I think he lasted before he keeled over in his kitchen. Dead of a heart attack.”

“That was five years ago?”

The man shrugged, “Might be. Years blends together when you’re my age.”

“So no one committed suicide there?”

The man’s eyes hardened, “That what you heard?”

Sansa nodded, “By someone who seemed pretty certain.”

The man nodded, “I heard that, too. Would’ve been before I moved to town to start up my business. They said he was some hunter that lived there alone. Killed himself. Didn’t leave a note. I don’t know if it’s true.”

“But you mentioned hearing about tragedy?”

“Nothin’ specific, just that lots of folks died there, last of which was the hunter, until the old man many decades later.”

“So why has the property never been developed? It sits abandoned, no one paying taxes on it for the better part of a century… that doesn’t make sense.”

The man snorted, “Sweetheart, look around. Plenty of open space around here. We’ve no shortage of land if someone wants to build a strip mall or housing development. Don’t need to buy one that has a house to be demolished.”

Sansa nodded, “That’s all you know?”

“That’s all I know. Told it all and our breakfast hasn’t even been served yet.”

Sansa smiled, “I suppose we can talk about the weather.”

“Or you can tell me why you asked all those questions.”

Sansa felt her cheeks heat, “I don’t even know your name.”

“Mitchell. Mitchell Glassman.”

“Sansa Stark,” Sansa extended her hand across the table. The man’s hand was wrinkled and rough but warm.

“So, Miss Stark… Is the house haunted?”

She sighed, “I don’t know. A lot of strange things have been going on though. If I told you, you’d say I should be in the nuthouse.”

“Sweetheart, I’ve seen a lot in my day. There’s a fair share of crazies in towns like these, people who come here to get away from the prying eyes of the city, so they can keep their skeletons hidden. People who keep to themselves so much they forget how to have a conversation with another human being. I don’t know you well, but so far I’d say you’re a long way from the nuthouse.”

Sansa chuckled, “Thanks. I’ve been having my doubts.”

Mitchell stared at her with warm eyes, even if they were a bit cloudy with cataracts. He was expecting her to tell him in her own good time. Deciding she had nothing to lose, she told him everything. She didn’t leave out a single detail, including the flower vase shattering and the knife whipping across the kitchen table. He listened with rapt and unjudgmental interest.

She forced a chuckle at the end, “Still think I’m sane?”

“Well, I don’t think you’re making it up.”

She raised her eyebrows, “Ah, so I’m a mental case, just not a liar.”

“Didn’t say that… Just thinking if everything you said is true, I’d be getting outta house.”

The logical statement was like a punch to the gut. She loved the house, as crazy as that may sound to anyone else. Though it frightened her, it also _called_ to her. And so far, nothing had actually hurt her. At times, she felt like the ghost had been acting almost… _protective…_ even if in a misguided way.

Sansa and Mitchell ate the rest of their meal in silence, which Sansa was grateful for. She ignored his studious gaze over his plate of eggs, and he seemed to respect that she had a lot to process. He’d told her little of value, but her mind was examining it from all angles, certain there was some explanation that would…

_Would what?_

_What am I trying to accomplish?_

Sansa felt as if she were on a mission, but she knew not the objective or the reward. She only knew she would _not_ be leaving her house unless it became unsafe to stay there.


	6. Sage

“Calling me from a payphone?” Arya mumbled.

“Nope; it’s official. I’m the proud owner of a telephone!”

“Wow… the newspaper should send someone to interview you.”

“You’re _hilarious_. I just wanted to give you the number. Got a pen and paper?”

Arya groaned, “Hold on… ah, damn, I squished a banana in my pocket.”

“Is that a squished banana in your pocket or are you just _over_ -excited to see me?”

A couple seconds passed until Arya let out what was clearly an involuntary snort, “Okay, that was actually really funny. Though, for the record, it’s in my coveralls’ chest pocket.”

“So you worked at the shop today?”

“Argh… yes _mom_ I worked at the shop.”

“I wasn’t judging!”

“Whatever. What’s the number?”

“303-3837”

“Wow, lots of threes.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“That’s good.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Trinity? Connection with the divine? Remember?”

“Remember what?”

“That book Dad gave us. It had been Aunt Lyanna’s… with the numbers and their meaning. Each person has a number and it describes their personality and shit. I think you were a three.”

“Oh yeah. Like astrological signs, but with numbers. Was it called _Numerology_?”

“Yeah, maybe... I think we decided my number was a five.”

“Hmm… now I want to get a book on numerology from the library.”

“Well I hate reading, so just tell me what it says about number five. Oh, and see if you can figure out what Gendry is.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “Alright, will do. Anyway, just wanted to give you the number.”

“Alright. I’ll give it to Rick and Bran. They’re coming by later to play games.”

“Game night? Why didn’t you invite me?!”

“I dunno. Cause you’re all wrapped up in your ghost.”

“That is _not_ true.”

Arya sighed into the receiver, “Every time I talk to you, you tell me about another creepy thing that happened. Hearing something, seeing something. You even said you smelled fire one night. Admit it, you like to sit at home every night waiting for your old man ghost to talk to you.”

“He’s not an old man!”

“See?”

Sansa sighed, “I don’t spend every night that way!”

Arya chuckled, “Whatever you say. So anymore weird shit with the dog?”

Sansa reached to stroke Sunny’s head, who was sleeping at her feet, “Sometimes. It’s so weird. It doesn’t happen every day but sometimes she seems really happy to see the ghost, other times she’s almost aggressive.”

“Well, maybe it depends what kind of mood he’s in. Men are moody, too, don’t let them tell you otherwise!”

Sansa chuckled but didn’t point out that Gendry must be a saint for putting up with Arya, and thus was well-entitled to occasional bouts of moodiness, “I guess. But it’s funny because I kind of feel the same way. Sometimes it feels so peaceful and safe around here. Other times it’s…” Sansa stopped herself from saying the word ‘terrifying’. Though she’d confided in Arya over the past weeks, she didn’t want her sister to realize how scary it sometimes was in the house. She’d either tease her for being a baby, or she’d tell her to pack up and leave.

As Sansa was debating what to tell her sister, Arya laughed, “Oh my Gods, why didn’t I think of this before?!”

“What?”

“We are doing game night at your house tonight. I’ll bring the game.”

“You guys are all going to drive out here?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t we?”

“Well, I don’t know. Just… it’s a long drive and…”

“And what?”

“I have no TV. I don’t even have any good junk food.”

Arya sighed, “If you want to stay home alone with your temperamental ghost, just say so.”

“No! I just feel bad that—”

“Don’t feel bad. I’ll bring the game, the boys, and some food.”

Sansa sighed, “Alright. If you say so. Thanks.”

After hanging up with Arya, Sansa looked around the living room.

“I’m having company tonight. I know you don’t like when I have compony, but it’s my family, alright? So can you just behave yourself? And don’t do anything to punish me for it later. This is my house, I bought it, I’m allowed to have people over, okay?” her voice was defiant though she knew she was at her ghost’s whim.

She sighed. She hadn’t gotten any kind of communication since the typewriter incident, and she felt as if her ghost was willfully ignoring her. It was frustrating.

She’d also noticed over the weeks that the ghost was irritable after she had anyone else in the house. Paul from the power company was the first example. The first time her parents came over was another example. Yesterday she invited the two men from the phone company in for iced tea and paid for it with a shitty night’s sleep – floorboards creaking almost nonstop, Sunny growling at nothing.

It also seemed not to like when she left the property, which was odd since it had told her to leave and warned her about becoming trapped.

When she spent all day at home, however, she was rewarded with what she could only describe as pleasant company. She would read pages of her manuscript aloud, and the ghost seemed to enjoy it. Sansa knew because she’d feel the finger dust over her shoulder, or sometimes her cheek. Or Sunny would wag her tail at nothing in particular.

Sansa had adopted Sunny shortly after having breakfast with Mitchell. The dog was part Labrador, part Boxer. Her coat was a beautiful shade of coppery tan and her snout and ears were black. Though she was a mix of two high-energy breeds, Sunny was a calm girl, aged six years old.

By the time Sansa adopted her, she was no longer looking for a guard dog, she was simply looking for company in the old house. An even greater motivation was to have a barometer for spiritual activity, though she laughed at herself for calling it that. Sansa figured that an animal would be more in tune with the spiritual plane, and that Sunny’s behavior would indicate the ghost’s presence… er, something. It seemed to work, but not perfectly. There were nights Sansa would have the dream, or wake and feel the ghost’s presence, and Sunny would have slept right through it, or simply seemed oblivious to it. Sansa wondered if the times Sunny did react were times when the ghost _allowed_ her to sense his presence. If so, it would match Sansa’s own experience.

…

The gang of Rick, Bran, Arya, and Gendry arrived shortly after 8 o’clock that night, arms loaded with two pizzas, a bag of chips, and two bottles of soda. Arya herself carried a cardboard box and slapped Sansa’s hand when she tried to sneak a peek at its contents.

They ate and chatted around the dinner table for nearly an hour, Arya forcing Sansa to tell some of her “ghost stories”. Sansa omitted the parts that even Arya hadn’t heard – the knife flinging incident and the times the ghost had spoken to her in a human voice.

Gendry looked skeptically frightened. Bran just looked skeptical. Rick just looked frightened.

“Sooooo… on that note…” Arya retrieved the box and began pulling out items while Sansa cleared off the table. She pulled out white candles and matches, a bundle of some grayish green dried plant, and lastly some type of wooden cutting board with letters on it.

“What’s that?” Sansa pointed at the board.

“A talking board. This is the game we’ll be playing tonight.”

“How do you play?”

“Well technically you don’t _play_. It’s a communication device.”

“Huh?”

Arya rolled her eyes, “You rest your fingers on this part,” she produced a smaller, thinner bit of wood with a hole carved through it, “and place it on the board. If there are any spirits present, they can talk through your fingers by spelling out words.”

“Cool!” Sansa exclaimed, “Once my ghost talked to me through my typewriter!”

All eyes fell on her. She blushed, “I guess I forgot to tell you that part. He only typed the first three letters of my name, though.”

Sansa cursed herself. There was no way they’d believe that. She had skirted the more incredible occurrences out of fear that her family would worry about her sanity. But she was surprised when Rick eventually smiled, “That’s so awesome, man!”

“Awesome?” Gendry crinkled his face, “She has a male ghost, living in her house, and he knows her name. How is that awesome?”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “What’s the other stuff for?”

Arya nodded, “Right. The candles are for the mood, I guess. Just seems like what people do during seances – light candles. The sage is to burn when we’re done. It will clear your house of evil spirts.”

“But I don’t want to get rid of my ghost!” Sansa squealed too passionately.

“I said _evil_ spirits. It will only work on spirits that mean you harm.”

Sansa wanted to object. Her ghost wouldn’t like this, she knew it in her bones. She even felt guilty for talking about him to so many people. Confiding in her sister was one thing, but now telling two of her brothers and Arya’s boyfriend? She felt like she was betraying some confidence by disclosing all their intimate moments.

_Intimate?_

Sansa sighed, “Fine, let’s get on with this.”

Arya smiled, “Alright. Most important thing – only those who believe can use the board. It won’t work if your mind isn’t open.”

Gendry and Bran politely bowed out, leaving Arya, Sansa, and Rick to each place their fingertips on an edge of the smaller board.

“San, you ask the questions. All three of us should empty our minds of any thought. Just be open to being the vessels of communication from the beyond.”

Sansa exhaled, feeling equal parts embarrassed and excited. _What if I’ve finally found a sure way to communicate with my ghost?_

With that bit of hope, she cleared her mind and spoke aloud, “What is your name?”

For long seconds nothing happened. The siblings exchanged glances.

_Please, please talk to me._

She repeated her question.

Suddenly the piece began gliding across the board. It hovered over the letter _D_. Sansa looked to Arya and Rick who returned her wide-eyed stare.

It continued moving slowly across the board to the letter _I._

Then backtracked to the letter _C._

Then reversed again to the letter _K._

“Dick!” Sansa exclaimed, nearly jumping out of her seat in excitement, “His first name is Dick! What is your last name?”

After a few more seconds the piece moved left again to hover over _H._

Then _E._

Then _A._

Then _D._

“Headley? Header?”

The movement stopped. Sansa scrunched her nose, “Dick Head?” Upon saying the words she realized she’d been had.

“You bitches!” she shook her head.

Arya and Rick burst into fits of giggles.

“It’s not funny! I got so excited!”

“ _Excited_ , eh? Thinking about your ghost’s dick, huh?”

“Oh shut up, Arya!” Sansa stood up and retrieved a beer from the refrigerator.

“Come on, San. We were just fooling around. Let’s do it again, for real.”

Sansa rolled her eyes, “So you can spell out _Harry Balls_? No, thank you.”

All the guys laughed but Sansa was in no mood for merriment.

“Come on, for real this time,” Arya began lighting the candles, “I’m doing it with or without you, San. But you’re the one with a connection to this ghost, it’ll work better if you do it, too.”

Sansa glared at her sister, “Any more jokes and I’m kicking you all out.”

“Deal,” Arya smiled.

They repeated the process for a second time and Sansa was pleased to see her siblings seemed to truly be focusing. Either they were taking this seriously or they were very good actors.

Sansa decided to ask a question that could be answered with a _Yes_ or _No,_ as the board had those words spelled out.

“Are you the hunter that killed himself here?”

“What?!” four voices screeched in unison.

“I’ll tell you later. Just concentrate.”

Arya and Rick shook their heads. Sansa repeated the question, “Are you the hunter that killed himself here?”

The piece didn’t move.

“Close your eyes,” Sansa whispered, “When he used the typewriter my eyes had been closed.”

They nodded and complied, but the piece did not move an inch. Minutes had passed before they opened their eyes, each voicing their disappointment in groans or curses.

“Sansa should do it by herself,” Bran suddenly interjected.

“What?” Arya asked, looking mildly insulted.

Bran nodded, “The ghost has communicated with her – _through_ her – before. Maybe he’ll do it again if it’s just her… Not that I believe in ghosts, but hypothetically, if I did, that would be my advice.”

Sansa shrugged but inwardly knew Bran was right. This was the feeling she’d had before. The ghost didn’t want anything to do with the others, only her. It made her feel special in a way she would never confess.

Sansa nodded and placed her fingers on the piece before exhaling slowly and closing her eyes.

She felt no movement, so she tried to clear her mind. When that didn’t work, she went for a distraction. She thought about all the stories she’d heard about the house. She sent compassion out to the poor hunter who’d been so sad or troubled that he resorted to suicide. She wanted him to know she felt him, that she could sympathize with being lonely, scared, and sad… That she was sorry about whatever happened that drove him to that point of desperation. She thought about the dreams she’d had, the flames, the child screaming. Had he lost a child in a fire? Had the grief been so overwhelming that he took his life?

“Sansa!”

Sansa’s eyes popped open upon hearing Rick’s voice.

“What the fuck happened?” Gendry looked at her nervously.

“What do you mean? Nothing happened.”

All four eyes looked from Sansa to the board and back again.

“What? Did it spell something?”

Arya nodded slowly, “San, it spelled the word _leave._ ”

Sansa stood up so abruptly the chair squeaked an ear-piercing sound against the floor. She hadn’t told any of her siblings about the voice and the two words it had spoken to her: _Leave_ and _trapped._

_Why must I leave? Why do you want me to leave? Why won’t you say anything else?_

She sat down again at the board, repeating her ritual after asking another question: “Am I in danger if I stay here? Or do you just want the house to yourself!? Answer with either _danger_ or _want._ ”

She closed her eyes, thinking again about her ghost, this time sending him assurances. She would accept whatever he told her, as long as it was the truth. She would understand. She would respect his wishes if he’d just let her know _why._ She _had_ to know why.

_Why?_

_Why?_

_Why?_

_Why?_

A coldness settled around her like the water of a lake, but she kept her eyes shut, inviting the answer, no matter how unsettling it may be.

“Sansa…” this time it was Arya’s voice that pulled her back.

“Yes? What did it spell?”

Rick’s face scrunched in confusion, “It spelled _stay_.”

Sansa stared at the board. Indeed the piece hovered over the letter Y. She snorted, feeling utterly dejected. “Make up your mind,” she mumbled.

The fivesome sat around the table, staring at the talking board with varying expressions of disbelief or disappointment. Sansa couldn’t blame them, but she was also jealous that this was just a weird night to them. To her it was so much more… it had been an opportunity to get answers that she sought with manic desperation. Instead she got nothing.

A low growl sounded from the living room, and everyone looked up simultaneously. After a few stunned seconds they all ran into the adjoining room to find Sunny standing on the couch – just where she’d settled down to sleep not more than a half hour ago. The hair on her spine was up, her tail was down, and she was staring into the kitchen growling, teeth bared. It was a low, sinister noise. Not the growl-bark hybrid Sansa often heard that was meant to scare off uninvited guests, like a racoon in the back yard. No, this was a final warning.

“Sunny,” Sansa called gently. The dog ignored her.

“Alright, we need to get the fuck out of here,” Rick shouted.

“I’m with Rick,” Gendry mumbled, panic clear in his tone.

“Sunny, please…” Sansa didn’t know what she was asking of the dog, who looked ready to kill.

“What the fuck is that smell?” Rick asked.

Everyone turned to find Arya waving around the smoking bundle of sage in the kitchen.

“Fucking cunt ghost… you leave my sister alone or I’m gonna come here every day and sage the shit out of your ass. I’ll bring this fucking witch I know, and she will evict your ghost ass to Hell. You hear me you mean fucker? Yeah… you mess with one wolf you have to deal with the whole pack.”

The seriousness of Arya’s tone in contrast to the ridiculousness of her words made Sansa burst into delirious laughter.

“Laugh all you want, San. You can thank me later. Sunny stopped growling, didn’t she?”

Sansa turned back to her dog who looked alert but no longer threatening. Sansa sat next to her on the couch and she wagged her tail tentatively after a few seconds. “Good Sunny girl. _Good girl_. You showed that ghost who’s boss, huh?”

“Sure, let the dog take all the credit,” Arya muttered.

Sansa smiled and walked to where her sister stood, now saging the living room, “Where’d you get this stuff anyway?”

“I’ve had the board for years – another of Aunt Lyanna’s things, but I kept it hidden so mom wouldn’t throw a bitch fit. The sage I bought a few days ago from Melisandre. She’s this Wiccan priestess, I just call her a witch. She doesn’t mind.”

Sansa nodded, “Always looking out for your big sis.”

“Whatever,” Arya shrugged, “Don’t get all sappy.”

Gendry held his hands in the air in front of him, “Hold on, are we all going to just glaze over the fact that there is a _legit_ ghost in Sansa’s house, and that he spoke to her, and that the dog was ready to go ballistic on him?”

Sansa shrugged, “I dunno, I’m kind of getting used to him. His bark is worse than his bite.”

Gendry looked around, clearly hoping to find someone else sharing his feeling of complete bafflement. Rick still looked shocked, Bran looked to be reconsidering his entire belief system, and Arya was in action mode.

Gendry shook his head, “Whatever, I’m waiting in the car. Sansa – thanks for having us, but you’re fucking nuts if you stay here. Arya, hurry up with your parsley so we can get the fuck out of here.”

“Sage.”

“Sage, parsley, thyme, basil, pot, opium… I don’t care what you’re burning, I just want to get outta here.”

“Pussy,” Arya mumbled beneath her breath.

…

Sansa lied in bed that night, restless. The house had been quiet; Sunny dozed calmly at her feet.

She sighed and rolled onto her back, “I know you’re mad that I told them about you. I’m sorry.”

Nothing.

“Look, I know you can speak to me. If you can say the words _trapped_ and _leave_ and _stay_ , then why won’t you say anything else? Tell me your name, at least.”

Nothing.

She sighed, “I’m Sansa Stark. I suppose you know that by now. I have five siblings – Robb, Jon, Arya, Rick, and Bran. My birthday is March 30th. I’m twenty-six years old. I am an author. I write old mystery and romance novels. You’ve heard parts of the one I’m currently working on – _Rochelle’s Ghost._ I’m going to tell you how it will end, okay? Because I trust you. There really isn’t a ghost, it really is her lover, Tristan, playing tricks on her. At first, he does it as a sort of retribution because he’s jealous that he doesn’t get to claim her publicly. He is irrationally jealous of her deceased husband. But then he realizes that his pranks are making Rochelle really cagey. It takes a while, but he overhears household staff questioning her sanity; wondering if she went mad after her husband’s death. So he continues his pranks until everyone is convinced she’s insane. Then he kills her by pushing her off her balcony, but of course everyone believes it’s a suicide. He gets nothing out of it, that’s the thing I like. He doesn’t get any inheritance; he doesn’t benefit from her death in any way… he just did it because he wanted to. Because _he_ was insane. He was possessive, paranoid, irrational… and so he killed her…

But after he kills her, he starts hearing things, seeing things. He convinces himself it is a guilty conscience. He doesn’t believe in ghosts. He ends up going through the same evolution into madness as Rochelle, but much more quickly because he was already unhinged to begin with. He ends up throwing himself from the same balcony… The last scene will show a pair of maids talking about it a few days later. They have put two and two together and realized Rochelle and Tristan were a couple. They don’t judge them for their age difference or anything. They think it’s romantic that he was so sad over her death that he killed himself. They talk about the couple with remorse but also admiration. So Tristan finally has his relationship acknowledged, but only after both he and Rochelle are dead, and only after their love is long gone.”

Sansa felt her eyes get heavy, and a warmth enveloped her. She wanted to lean into it but there was nothing there to lean against.

She lowered her voice until it was barely a breath, “Was it your son that was burned? Is that why you shot yourself? Did you feel responsible? Or was the sadness just too much?”

“Did you have a wife? Did you love her? Did you lose her, too?”

Sansa sighed, “I suppose this sounds morbid, but I hope someday I have a man who loves me so much that he couldn’t live without me. I suppose it makes me sound selfish. I don’t think I am, though, because I want to love him just as much. Maybe even more, since love comes a little more easily to women.”

She exhaled a disappointed sound, “It’s pointless to wish for, isn’t it? Women are normally married by my age, or at least dating someone seriously. Even my little sister who is feisty and independent is living with a guy. Living in sin, mind you…

“My brother Jon, who’s actually my cousin, is married. He was here once – he’s the one who fixed all the locks. My brother Robb has a fiancé. Her name is Jeyne. I know as soon as they’re married, they’ll have kids. Bran and Rick are younger, but they’re both so handsome. Bran is also so smart; I think he’s almost a genius. Rick isn’t as smart but boy, is he funny. And he’s good at sports. They’ll both find girls and settle down, sooner or later, and I’ll just be here with my books and my ghost…

I guess my problems must seem pretty silly to you, huh? I wish I knew what you went through. I wish you would tell me. Are you afraid to tell me? Or are you unable to tell me, for some reason? I promise I won’t tell anyone your story. Maybe you’d feel better if you told me.”

His answer was what it normally was: nothing.

She sighed again, “Well, goodnight.”

…

The blue jays woke Sansa up before she was ready to rise. She groaned and stretched, laughing when Sunny did the same.

“I guess we both want to be lazy today, huh girl? Oh well, I guess we should get up.”

Sansa didn’t bother getting dressed. She might not be able to sleep in, but she would indulge herself by lounging in her pajamas until noon. She expected no visitors today, and no one would make the long drive to her house unannounced.

She padded down the creaky steps, but her body froze when the living room came into view behind the wall of the stairway. There was a man sitting in one of the chairs. He was the largest man Sansa had ever seen, legs so long his knees were higher than his backside even though the chair legs were tall. His shoulders were so broad they weren’t contained within the chair wings but spanned across them. This giant of a man was sitting in her chair, in her living room, asleep by the look of it.

_He must be some indigent, or a drunk, who wandered in here last night and passed out._

Sansa was terrified into paralysis until she squinted to look at the man’s sleeping face. It was partially obscured by stringy black hair, but half his face was covered in some type of scarring. Not scars from a knife or broken glass, but almost something like an acid burn, or…

_Burn._

The words and images from her dreams came back to her. Fire. Burn. The man’s face was burned, but in the dream, it had been a child screaming, a child burning, not a man grown.

Intrigue washed away fear as she walked slowly toward him. It was clear now that his scars were indeed from being burned. The flesh left behind was uneven yet smooth with an almost waxy quality. Her fingers moved of their own accord to touch it, and when she did a tear escaped her lashes.

“My ghost,” she whispered.

He was a dark featured man, yet his skin was ashen. Sansa took both his hands in hers but gasped as she noticed they were as cold as bricks, and unnaturally stiff. She dropped his hands quickly and traced his body with her eyes, but there were no signs of a wound.

_Shot himself._

Sansa covered her mouth at the implication. There was no gun in his lap or even on the floor, but she knew what she’d find when she walked around the back of the chair. It took her minutes to work up the nerve, but eventually she walked the few paces to stand behind him. There in the back of his head was a jagged wound, obscured partially by hair matted with blood.

Her mouth opened but it took several seconds before any sound came out. Once it did, the high-pitched scream hurt even Sansa’s ears. Sunny started barking frantically, but Sansa couldn’t stop the scream that poured out of her chest in a single prolonged note.

She popped up out of bed. Sunny was standing on the bed barking at her. Sansa gasped for air, her throat feeling raw. Light poured through the windows, and she’d never been more grateful for the sun.

Her ghost _was_ the little boy. He survived the fire but killed himself years later, when he was a man.

Sansa sprung from the bed, feelings of anger, injustice and sadness converging to fill her with a fool’s courage. She retrieved the flashlight from her bedside table, and the stepstool from the hall closet. She had to search for more answers. Perhaps some of her ghost’s earthly possessions were up there, after all, few of the people who occupied the house since his death had stayed very long. Perhaps none had ever gone into the attic.

Sansa carefully lowered the ladder, squinting to keep dirt, dead bugs, insulation, and whatever else might drift down out of her eyes.

Sunny stared at her with a dog’s version of confused fascination. Sansa patted her head then began her ascent. Step after step, slowly but surely, until her head breached the barrier between ceiling and attic. She shown the flashlight around, illuminating small sections of darkness one at a time. She saw cobwebs and…

_And nothing._

The attic was completely empty. Not so much as a shoe box’s worth of possessions. Nothing that would give her clues. Nothing that belonged to her ghost, or to anyone else for that matter. Nothing at all.

Sansa leaned against the dusty wood framing the access door, the familiar feelings of disappointment and failure sinking in. Shaking her head she had one more look around, spinning around with the flashlight to make sure there was no nook she missed the first time. It was all the same – just the inside of the stone walls and the wooden—

Sansa dropped the flashlight a millisecond after it illuminated the legs of a man standing in the northeast corner of the house.

“Oh hell no,” she began climbing down the ladder but made it only two steps before something latched onto her wrist, yanking her up into the attic. She didn’t dare look up, knowing she’d die of fright if she saw the menacing face of a dead man, even if he was her beloved ghost.

Sunny’s barking drowned out the sound of Sansa’s crying and screaming. She cried for help, but no one was around to hear for miles. Sunny’s teeth sunk into her pants near the ankle and the poor dog pulled with all her might, but it only succeeded in making the loose pants slip lower on Sansa’s hips.

“Let me go! Please let me go!” she cried out in a last-ditch effort to appeal to the ghost’s sense of mercy.

A whoosh of warm air blew past her, and suddenly her wrist was free. Sansa felt herself falling, her stomach lifting within her abdominal cavity as she desperately reached for the rungs of the ladder even as her feet were still planted on one of the lower steps. It must have only been a second, but it felt like it was happening in slow motion. Her body became horizontal and she saw the opening above her – completely empty – just before everything went black.

…

Something warm was pressed to Sansa’s body. It felt like her ghost. Her head throbbed as if a miniature marching band was practicing within her skull.

She opened her eyes when she heard a whimper. Sunny was staring down at her and started barking once Sansa’s eyes opened.

Sansa covered her ears, “Enough girl, I’m alright.”

It took Sansa some time to recognize that she was lying in her pajamas on the floor of her upstairs hallway. Flashes of memories came back to her – of falling. Of screaming for help. Of… Of the attic. Of finding a man there, and then something trying to pull her up.

Sansa stood up on shaky legs controlled by a dizzy head. She closed the access door though it took much effort and made her headache even more pronounced.

She knew enough about medicine to know she was lucky not to have lost her eyesight when the back of her head bounced off the floor. She also knew she probably had a concussion, as she felt dizzy and nauseated. But there was no treatment for a concussion other than rest. Or was it that she _wasn’t_ supposed to rest? _Well if that’s the case, it’s already too late._ She’d been lying unconscious in the hallway for some time now. She stumbled into her bedroom – it was 10:02 AM. She’d been out cold for over two hours.

Poor Sunny hadn’t been let out or fed yet. Sansa grabbed a pillow and blanket from her bed, scooted down the stairs, and opened the back door to let Sunny out. She filled her bowl with kibble then went to lay on the couch. It was only when she walked back to the living room that she remembered her dream. Her ghost had shown himself to her. She now had a face to go with… well, she still didn’t have a name.

Everything that had happened since the prior night deserved to be analyzed now, but she was in so much pain and felt so tired. A hundred ghosts could drag her to the attic, she wouldn’t even be able to put up a protest. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.


	7. Touch

Sansa slept for the better part of three days, only getting up to drink juice or eat crackers, go to the bathroom, or tend to Sunny. Arya had phoned twice during those days, and both times Sansa assured her all was well, though claimed a touch of the stomach flu to explain the grogginess in her voice.

Her ghost had been quiet, though often when Sansa woke it was to the feeling that someone was with her. Watching her sleep. The feelings always vanished as soon as she became fully conscious.

On the fourth day Sansa felt well enough to shower and dress. It was also the first time since her fall that she was lucid enough to contemplate what had happened.

The epiphany hit her like a wave while she stood at the stove, cooking her first real meal in days.

_Not one ghost. Two._

There was no way the man in the attic was her ghost. Her ghost had never harmed her. Moreover, she remembered what happened just before her wrist was released. A force or energy or _something_ had hurtled past her. _That_ had been her ghost. He saved her from the other ghost. The evil ghost that Sunny had growled at, that had seemingly vanished when Arya lit the sage. That was probably also the ghost that flung the knife, that broke the vase.

Everything fell into place. She stood in front of her mirror and laughed at her own reflection.

“That’s why you told me to leave. You know he’s here; you were trying to protect me. You did protect me. You’ll always protect me.”

She shook her head, “He’s the one who told me to _stay_. He wants me to stay. Or is that backwards… do you like me and want me to stay, but he hates me and wants me to leave? Did he grab me in the hopes I’d be scared and leave?”

“And am I the one who is trapped, or is it you? Is he trapping you here? Does he have some power over you?”

She stood still, waiting for an answer.

“You _are_ trapped, aren’t you? Why else would you spend an eternity with him? He’s evil, isn’t he?”

Sansa sat on her bed with a sigh. The warm feeling was there, which meant her ghost was there. Every question fled her mind, leaving behind the only one that mattered. She held her hand out, palm up, imagining her ghost was holding it, even if she could not feel it.

She whispered the question quietly in the hopes the evil ghost wouldn’t hear, “Answer me one question, and I’ll never ask another… is it within my power to set you free?”

She closed her eyes, prepared to sit there and wait all day to receive an answer.

When it eventually came, it wasn’t in the form of a raspy voice uttering a single word. She felt two feather-light fingers dust her left cheek, and a few seconds later a warmth around both her hands. It was fleeting, but undeniable. She felt it, and she was long past convincing herself the subtle sensations or sounds were just some figments of her imagination.

He had touched her, just as she touched him in her dream, first his scarred cheek, then his hands.

It was an answer, but she didn’t understand it. Was he reminding her of his manner of death to tell her that he would never be free? Or was he sending her a message… a code for her to decipher? Her heart told her it was the latter, though she recognized the influence of wishful thinking.

She opened her eyes, “I have to go to town today. Sunny will be here to keep you company. I’ll be home before dark.”

She collected her purse and car keys but stopped before pulling shut the front door. She turned and smiled, “I’m not leaving you.”

…

“Excuse me,” Sansa politely called the attention of the elderly librarian.

The woman looked up over narrow reading glasses and smiled, “Can I help you, dear?”

“Yes. I need to use your microfiche reader. I’m looking for newspaper articles, from about eighty years ago.”

The woman slowly rounded her desk as she nodded, “Of course dear, though we only have the Herald on archive.”

“Would the Herald have covered news in this area?”

The woman nodded, “Major news, yes.”

“Major as in suspicious deaths? Or suicides?”

The woman blanched, “Why ever would you want to read about that, dear?”

Sansa decided partial honesty was the best policy, “I recently moved into the farmhouse at 19 County Road B. A few locals have told me there was a suicide there, about eighty years ago, and possibly some other deaths before that,” Sansa blushed, “Call it morbid curiosity on my part…”

The woman shook her head, “Don’t need to search through newspaper archives to learn about all that.” She tapped her forehead, “I’ve got it all up here.”

Sansa knew her eyes went wide, “You do?!”

“Mmhmm… My daddy was the sheriff’s deputy when it happened, about six years before I was born. It was all the town talked about for months… years even. As gossip tends to do, lots of rumors floated around, each with some elements of truth, but not the whole truth. But my daddy knew the truth of it. The sheriff told him everything he didn’t see for himself.”

“Please, ma’am, will you tell me everything you know?”

The woman nodded and motioned Sansa over to a set of chairs at a small reading table. Sansa peered around the library. It was empty save one patron she couldn’t see but could hear every time he coughed. About half of the fluorescent light fixtures in the ceiling were burned out, casting the space around her in a cool, dim light.

The woman seemed to be gathering her knowledge as she sat quietly for some minutes before proceeding, “It would have been seventy-nine years ago. Mr. Clegane was found by the mailman, dead. Rifle at his feet, bullet hole at the back of his head. _Good riddance_ , the whole town said.”

Sansa pursed her lips, “What do you mean?”

“He was the last of his kin... all died off one by one. His poor mother died bringing him into the world, not uncommon in those days, but in hindsight it shows that the man was born evil. His own mother was his first victim.”

“ _Victim?_ He was… he _killed_ people?”

“Mmhmm… Sister died when she was a girl. Father died a few years later. That left only the two brothers. They lived in that farmhouse for years. Then one day the elder went missing. Body was never found, but everyone knew it was the younger brother that’d done it. Unfortunately there was no proof. No body, no proof, my daddy had said. And the elder was a known degenerate drunk, so it was easy enough for some folks to speculate he’d had one too many some evening, started trouble with the wrong people, or passed out in a ditch and got dragged off by wolves or mountain lions. Most folks though, they knew it was the younger brother. Awfully coincidental to have two members of his family die under mysterious circumstances and another one go missing, leaving only him.”

Sansa shook her head in shock, “Oh my goodness… I had no idea.”

“He supposedly had a temper, too. An angry boy that turned into an angry man. They said it was some childhood accident...”

“Burned…” Sansa whispered.

“That part I was never really clear on. I only know most of the town believed he killed his entire family, one by one. Others said it was the house itself – that it was haunted by some evil spirits. I don't believe in such nonsense. Anyway, the brother lived a few more years until he shot himself. Open and shut case, my daddy told me. No sign of forced entry, not to mention – who would be dumb enough to try to kill a man believed to be callous enough to murder his own family? Plus he was a hunter, it would be known he had guns in the house and knew how to use them. And he was a big fellow, they said. Frightening to look at.”

“Wow… I… wow,” Sansa thought about the dream (or was it a vision?) she’d had of her ghost. He was large, he was scarred, he was even _dead_ and yet Sansa didn’t feel _frightened_ by his appearance. Perhaps it was only because it was a dream. Perhaps in real life the man truly was a terror, though her chest tightened when she tried to imagine it.

“You said it, dear. After he killed himself, everyone speculated it was guilt that drove him over the edge. Others said it was the ghosts of the family he murdered, drove him mad. Since I don’t believe in ghosts, I’m inclined to believe the man had something left of a conscience. For his sake, I hope it was enough for the Father to take mercy on his soul."

Sansa nodded, though the woman’s words were troubling. Had she been duped? Was her ghost an evil spirit all along? Was he feigning benevolence to gain her trust? But to what end? And what of the times he’d protected her? Was he just toying with her? Is this how he passed an eternity?

_What if it wasn’t him who protected me at all, but a ghost of one of his family members? The mother, the father, the sister…_

Sansa looked back at the kindly librarian, “If it’s alright by you, I’d still like to read the articles associated with these incidents.”

The woman masked her surprise quickly enough and shrugged, “Suit yourself, Miss. They’re your nightmares.”

Sansa spent a half hour scanning through newspapers on the microfiche before finding the first one related to the Clegane family. Since she was going in reverse chronological order, it was the article about the man’s suicide in 1896. The headline read **_Guilt Takes its Toll: Silverhill Man Believed to Have Killed Family Takes Own Life._**

Sansa’s stomach twisted into knots, but she forced herself to read on:

> LANNISPORT, West. Aug. 29
> 
> The mysterious and reclusive Sandor Clegane, age 25, was found in his Silverhill home yesterday afternoon, dead of an apparent self-inflicted gunshot wound.
> 
> Mr. Clegane was questioned but never charged in the disappearance of his elder brother, Gregor Clegane, in 1888.
> 
> Mr. Clegane’s passing is but the latest tragedy to touch the Clegane family. He was predeceased by his father, Abnor Clegane, and sister, Eleanor Clegane, who died in separate incidents on or near the family’s property, and his mother Sandra Clegane who died birthing Sandor. Local residents have long speculated that Mr. Clegane was responsible for some of the fates that had befallen his family.
> 
> Since his brother’s disappearance, Mr. Clegane has lived in near complete isolation. Only the mailman and grocer’s son have seen the man in the past seven years. Their accounts put Mr. Clegane’s likely date of death as August 18th.
> 
> He left no note. A medical examination is scheduled to confirm the cause of death as suicide.

Sansa wiped a lone tear from her cheek. She felt as if her deepest conviction had been shattered. She’d lived in the house for over a month, yet already felt such a strong connection to him. To find out he had very likely been a killer, and worse yet – killed his own _family_ – it made Sansa question everything she’d felt and believed over the weeks.

She steeled her spine and continued her research. She needed to know everything. The truth, she was convinced, was somewhere between the lines of these newspaper articles.

She found no article in 1888 about Gregor Clegane’s disappearance, but did find the 1882 article about the death of Sandor and Gregor’s father.

> **_Silverhill Man Dies in Hunting Accident_ **
> 
> LANNISPORT, West. Nov. 5
> 
> Abnor Clegane, age 35, of Silverhill, was found dead in the woods by his youngest son, Sandor, age 12. His body was found late yesterday morning at the bottom of a steep embankment approximately 1 mile form his home on Country Road B.
> 
> At approximately 7 AM Tuesday morning, Abnor and his eldest son, Gregor, age 16, departed the house on a planned hunting trip. Both men were avid hunters and trappers, providing the residents of Silverhill with meat, hide, and fur for many years.
> 
> Shortly after midday, Gregor returned home due to a severe migraine and went directly to bed. Abnor did not return by dusk that night, so both brothers made plans to search for their father at first light.
> 
> Employing the family’s hunting hounds, Sandor found Abnor’s body and alerted his brother, who rode into town to summon the police. Police later disclosed the manner of death as accidental. Wounds on the body included small cuts and bruises consistent with a fall, and a broken neck as the ultimate cause of death.
> 
> Abnor is predeceased by his wife, Sandra, and his daughter Eleanor. Eleanor’s tragic death in 1879 shook the quiet town of Silverhill. Abnor’s death leaves many town residents wondering how so much tragedy can befall a single family.

Something about the article rang false to Sansa. The article called Abnor an experienced hunter. At thirty-five he was likely a fit man, and no doubt well acquainted with the woods that sustained his family for years. No inclement weather was reported in the article, so it was unlikely that he slipped on wet leaves or mud. She didn’t find it likely that he would fall and break his neck on familiar terrain. Further, why would Abnor remain in the woods alone after Gregor went home? Sansa’s father and brothers were avid hunters, but none of them ever ventured out into the woods alone. It was too dangerous – a man could twist his ankle, or have his rifle backfire, and he’d be left alone for hours before anyone back home thought to consider him missing.

Perhaps times were different back then. Sansa’s family hunted for sport, donating most of the meat to local butchers. The Cleganes lived off the land, apparently.

Sansa put herself in the shoes of someone trying to incriminate Sandor for the death. They would likely notice the window of opportunity sometime after noon and before sunset. If Gregor was abed with a migraine, Sandor would have ample opportunity to go to the woods and kill his father. But it would hardly have been a premeditated crime, then, for Sandor could not have predicted his brother would return home early.

After jotting down some notes, Sansa began scanning through the 1879 newspapers. It didn’t take long to find the article describing little Eleanor Clegane’s death.

> **_Tragic Death of Beloved Silverhill Daughter and Sister_ **
> 
> LANNISPORT, West. Oct. 10
> 
> The small town of Silverhill is reeling after the tragic death of Eleanor Clegane, who recently celebrated her 11th birthday.
> 
> Eleanor and her brothers, Gregor, 13, and Sandor, 9, were playing in the barn of the family’s property on County Road B when, in a freak accident, little Eleanor was kicked in the chest by a horse. Eleanor lost consciousness immediately and died within an hour, as her father Abnor raced against time to get her to the town physician, Dr. Locke.
> 
> Dr. Locke explains to the Herald that a horse kick to the chest can easily damage the lungs and heart, particularly in a child whose bones are not fully hardened.
> 
> An external evaluation was performed to confirm the only serious injuries were to her chest and the back of her head, which the brothers report hit a stall door after her body was flung back by the force of the kick. Other minor scrapes and bruises were deemed consistent with outdoor play and activities, which Eleanor was fond of.
> 
> Eleanor is remembered by town residents as a shy but well-mannered child who loved to sing, climb trees, and play outside with her brothers.
> 
> Eleanor’s death is the third tragedy to affect the Clegane family in less than a decade. Her mother died of labor complications while birthing the youngest child, Sandor. Three years ago, Sandor himself nearly died when his face and neck were severely burned in a house fire.
> 
> Eleanor will no doubt by missed by her family and the Silverhill community.

Sansa had graduated to full-on tears by the end of the article. She could only imagine the frantic terror of Abnor Clegane as he rode to town with his daughter’s limp body in his arms, hoping to reach a doctor in time to save her.

She once again read the article through the lens of someone trying to incriminate Sandor but failed to see how it could be anything but an accident. Sandor and Gregor were _both_ present in the barn with Eleanor. If either had hurt Eleanor, why would the other not tell their father or the police?

While Gregor’s disappearance and Abnor’s death were suspicious, nothing seemed odd about Eleanor’s death. Unfortunate and sad, certainly, but not suspicious.

Sansa moved on to what was probably the final article she would find on the Clegane family, assuming Sandra’s death in childbed wouldn’t make the regional newspaper.

Sansa found the article she was looking for but had to take a few minutes to compose herself before reading. No matter what later became of Sandor Clegane, he was an innocent child when he had the terrible accident that left him disfigured. Perhaps the accident itself is what set him on a violent path, if that had indeed been his fate.

> **_Silverhill Boy Clinging to Life After Bedding Fire Burns Face_ **
> 
> LANNISPORT, West. Aug. 19
> 
> Sandor Clegane, age 6, is clinging to life in a bed of the newly built Lannisport Hospital. Late last night his father Abnor woke to the sound of Sandor’s screams and found him lying on the floor beside his bed, trying to douse flames that engulfed part of his face and neck. In a particularly tragic twist, the accident occurred on Sandor’s birthday.
> 
> The fire was believed to have started when a lit lamp on a nearby bureau fell onto his bed, splattering Sandor’s pillow and face with oil which quickly combusted.
> 
> Little Sandor was unconscious during most of the ride to Lannisport Hospital, a four-hour ride by carriage. Silverhill town physician, Dr. Locke, accompanied Sandor and his father during the journey, tending to Sandor’s wounds as best he could along the way.
> 
> Local police report that Sandor, in a brief moment of consciousness, accused his elder brother, Gregor, age 9, of intentionally burning him, but Abnor refutes this claim, explaining that Gregor arrived first to Sandor’s bedroom and held his brother down while he tried to snuff out the fire with a blanket.
> 
> If Sandor survives, he will undoubtedly bear severe scarring but may also lose part of his sight and hearing according to surgeons at Lannisport Hospital.
> 
> The Herald, on behalf of the Clegane family, implores all readers to pray for the recovery of poor young Sandor Clegane.

Sansa again scanned through articles later that year looking for an update on Sandor’s recovery, but found none. Obviously, he survived, but how long had he been in the hospital? Did he indeed lose part of his hearing or eyesight? Was he ever questioned again by the police? Was Gregor ever questioned?

Each incident on its own seemed to have a particularly logical explanation. No doubt house fires were common in the days before electricity, when homes were filled with the flames of candles and lanterns, not to mention fireplaces and woodstoves. But Sandor’s accident, combined with his sister’s accident, combined with his father’s accident… well, it seemed as if it were no accident at all.

Sandor obviously didn’t set himself on fire at the age of 6. He also likely wasn’t strong enough to kill his sister at the age of nine. His father’s death… _maybe_ a twelve-year-old boy, big for his age, could kill a grown man, but it would have meant venturing into the woods, finding his father, killing him, staging it to look like an accident, and returning – all while hoping Gregor didn’t wake up to notice his absence.

The only “incident” that cast suspicion on Sandor was Gregor’s supposed disappearance. Sansa needed to learn more about it, but there were no articles about it in 1888 or even 1889. Its only mention was in the 1895 article about Sandor’s suicide.

Someone _must_ have known the Clegane brothers during the six-year period between Abnor’s death and Gregor’s disappearance. Someone must know whether the brothers got along or were at odds. Perhaps they hated each other. Perhaps Sandor _was_ responsible for Gregor’s disappearance, but Sansa couldn’t believe he killed his sister or father.

It was midafternoon when Sansa walked back into the house. She picked up her phone and dialed LP&L, knowing it was her best and perhaps only chance at learning more about Sandor and Gregor Clegane.

After leaving a message with the dispatcher Sansa sat in the living room, in the very chair in which Sandor Clegane’s body had appeared in her dream.

She looked around and sighed, “I know you didn’t kill them,” she whispered, “Maybe _him_ … but not _them_.”

She closed her eyes, not expecting to hear a response while she waited for a call back.


	8. Realization

Sansa sat at the same diner, and, incidentally, the same booth, where she spoke with Mitchell some weeks back. It took much time and persuasion to get Paul to agree to this meeting, but he seemed willing enough when Sansa told him they could meet somewhere public, that he wouldn’t have to step foot anywhere near her property.

Now she stared across the table at a reticent Paul and his eager grandfather, Stewart. She wasn’t sure what, if anything, Paul told Stewart about her, but she soon found out.

Stewart smiled crookedly, revealing dentures a shade too white to be believable, “So you’re the one who bought the old Clegane house, eh?”

Sansa smiled back, “I am.”

“And you’re still there?”

Sansa chuckled, “Still there. Been nearly two months.”

Stewart lifted his brows, “You must be a brave young woman.”

Sansa shrugged, “Brave, crazy, stupid… my father would say sometimes it’s hard to tell them apart.”

“Hah! Your father sounds like a wise man.”

“Indeed, and unfortunately he _knows_ it.”

“Hah! Well, humor your old man, Miss, and heed the wisdom of your elders.”

Sansa smiled, “Don’t worry, I do.”

“So you want to ask about the house…”

“No… I want to ask about its _residents_. I understand your father knew the town mailman at the time…”

“Oh yeah. Mykel was his name. I met him myself; he and his wife would come over for dinner when I was just a little one. That would have been years after the suicide, but in small towns like these we don’t have much else to gossip over. As I recall the house had been sold then quickly vacated, so it stirred up all the old stories.”

“Well, can you tell me what Mykel said about the brothers? Sandor and Gregor Clegane.”

“Oh, nothing but trouble, that pair. The younger one kept to himself, for the most part, but wasn’t afraid to back down from a fight, and occasionally to start one. The older one though… he was _always_ starting trouble. He was ungodly big. Both were, so I was told, but the older one in particular. Had no problems picking fights with smaller men, usually when he was drunk. Not sure he treated ladies much better. Eventually people just avoided him, crossed the street when he came walking down their side of the sidewalk, that sort of thing.”

“What about when Gregor went missing?”

“Oh, yeah, I heard about that. Just disappeared one day. Brother didn’t report him missing, since Gregor had a habit of disappearing on benders for days, sometimes weeks at a time. More likely, he didn’t care what happened to him one way or another. But town folk like to have scandals to talk about, so they made it sound as if the younger killed the elder.”

“You don’t believe that?”

Stewart shrugged, “I wasn’t there, and I’m not one to speculate.”

“So is that the first time anyone suspected Sandor in the other deaths – his sister and father?”

Stewart’s head cocked, “You heard about that, eh? That could be when it started, I wouldn’t know. Anyway, not that townfolk were crazy about him to begin with, but after that they went out of their way to ostracize him, so I heard. Pretty soon, the man never left his house, or so they said. He’d made arrangements to have his groceries delivered every other week. So Mykel was the only person who saw him all that often, to deliver the mail. And the grocer’s kid less frequently to deliver food.”

“What did Mykel say about him?”

Stewart shrugged, “Not much. I guess if anything he felt sorry for the man. Scarred like he was, then losing all of his family, then becoming an outcast. Never heard Mykel say anything particularly kind nor unkind about him. Just that he kept to himself, never left the house. Opened the door to take the mail, but that was about it… but we’re going back a long time, Miss. My memory may be foggy.”

Sansa smiled, “Is that it? Mykel never saw anything suspicious?”

“Like what? Him burying his brother’s giant body?” Stewart asked with an amused snort.

Sansa shrugged, “I don’t know. _Anything_ , I suppose...”

“Nah. Mykel actually didn’t like to talk about it much. My dad suspected he felt guilty after the man killed himself. I suppose Mykel felt like if he’d been a bit of a friend, offered to talk to him, might be he wouldn’t have done what he did. All else I know is that Mykel is the one who found him after he noticed Sandor wasn’t opening the door to get the mail.”

“And did he notice anything odd then?”

“Other than a big dead body already starting to rot?”

Sansa grimaced. Stewart certainly was blunt. She nodded, “Other than that.”

Stewart peered down at his Coca Cola, “Actually, come to mention it, I did hear something from my Pa. Might be Mykel just got the spooks, but he said when he entered the house it was cold in there, even though it was August. Claimed he felt it when he pushed the door open, before he even saw the body, then it just went away. I think that’s how he described it. Like I said, Miss… your testing my powers of recollection here.”

Sansa remembered the feeling of cold settling around her after the talking board spelled out _stay._

She ate a few bites of her sandwich so as not to seem eager to rush out. She thanked Stewart for this time, though clearly the old man was glad to have someone interested in what he had to say.

Just before standing to leave she jotted her phone number on a piece of paper torn from her notebook, “Here’s my phone number. If you ever think of anything else, would you call me?”

Stewart bowed his head, “No problem, Miss. But only if you let me tell you in person. Not every day I see a woman so young… or so pretty.”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush, “Thank you. Just don’t repeat that in my house.”

“Why’s that?”

Sansa stood and slung her purse over her shoulder. With a casual shrug she answered the old man with the generous truth, “Because Gregor is jealous, and Sandor is protective.”

She whirled out of the diner after dropping more than enough cash on the table to pay for their three lunches. She didn’t turn back to see what she knew would be stunned expressions on both men, instead giggling to herself with a relaxed joy she was by no means entitled to.

…

Sansa felt confident that her suspicions were true. Sandor was no murderer. At most he killed his brother Gregor, and probably had good reason for it. He lived a lonely life, killing himself on August 18, 1895. 08.18.1895. _Lots of eights._

Sansa stopped dead in her tracks before she even reached her front door. Today was August 8th. Ten days from now would be the day Sandor killed himself. It would be the 80th anniversary of his death.

She ran into the kitchen, sitting down with the notebook in which she had scribbled some notes at the library and today at the diner.

_Sandor death – suicide, 8/18?/1895 age 25_

_Gregor disappearance – 1888, no article._

_Abnor death age 35, fall while hunting 11/3/1882. Sandor finds next day._

_Eleanor death, horse kick, 10/9/1879, days(?) after birthday._

_Sandor burned – 8/18/76 – 6 th birthday_

_Mother Sandra Died 1870 birthing Sandor._

_Sandor DOB 8/18/70_

_Eleanor DOB 10/1-10/8/1868 ?_

_Gregor DOB ?/?/1866_

_Abnor DOB ?/?/1847_

Sansa hurriedly let Sunny out then ran back through the house, dog in tow.

“I’ll be back, Sandor!” she shouted as she yanked the front door shut. Sunny hopped through the passenger side window as Sansa rounded the car. She peeled out of the driveway like a bat out of hell and fifteen minutes later pulled up at the local church and cemetery.

It was by no means a large cemetery but searching the old headstones wasn’t a quick task. Much of the lettering had been worn away, creating a clear delineation between those souls who’d perished before the turn of the century and those who died afterwards.

Eventually she found what she was looking for – the modest grave marker for Abnor Clegane. The words “Loving husband and father” wouldn’t have been legible if not that Sansa expected to see such words in this context. She ran her fingers on the date of birth – November 1, 1847. Sansa looked to her notebook, which helped confirm the death date on the marker as November 3, 1882. He died two days after his birthday.

Sandra’s marker was even harder to read, and Sansa didn’t think it much mattered. She already knew her date of death was the same as Sandor’s birthday.

She moved on to Eleanor’s. _Beloved daughter and sister._ Her date of birth was October 6th of 1868, putting her death just three days after her birthday.

Sansa choked on a sob when she saw Sandor’s name on a grave marker. There were no etchings in the stone other than his name and the years of his birth and death. 1870 – 1895. Unlike the others, his was just a flat marker in the ground, the kind given to people who die without living relatives who care enough to pay for a larger stone, or have some sentiment carved into the rock.

She placed her hand on the flat surface. The man who lay six feet beneath her had somehow found a way to communicate with her from beyond the grave. She had seen and touched him in her dreams. She had heard his voice. She had felt the gentleness of his fingertips, the warmth of his presence. How was it possible to feel all that when he was dead below the very earth she now kneeled on? _How?_

…

As Sansa lay in bed that night, she couldn’t stop crying. Even Sunny’s concerned whimpers did not improve her mood. There was only one person who could soothe her, and he wasn’t even real. She couldn’t look upon him or touch him, hold him or kiss him.

She blew her nose for the tenth time since getting in bed and laid on her back, “I visited your grave today. I saw your father’s grave, too. And your mother’s and your sister’s. Eleanor. I suppose her death was hardest on you. I hope you don’t mind my saying her name. It’s a pretty name. Beautiful, really. It deserves to be said, and she deserves to be remembered, because I don’t think it was an accident. I think you knew it, and you didn’t say anything because you were afraid of _him._ I won’t speak his name. I won’t talk about him like he’s a human being. I know in my bones he wasn’t. I don’t know why; I don’t know how... But I’ll say _her_ name. I’ll say it every day if it will make you happy. If it doesn’t, you can find a way to tell me…”

Sansa laughed, “I just realized something. You weren’t typing my name that day. You were trying to type yours, weren’t you? Maybe you don’t even know my name. Maybe you can’t even hear my words the way I hear them. Maybe you just pick up little wisps of emotion or sentiment. Maybe… oh I don’t know, Sandor. I feel like I’ve learned so much and yet none of it helps... There’s only one thing left to try. I’ll do it tomorrow, I promise.”

Sansa rolled to her side, wondering if, in his own spirit way, he would wrap his body around her. The silly idea had her smiling again, “Goodnight, Sandor.”

…

Sansa woke in the darkness with a cool tickling sensation dragging down her ribs to her waist to her hips to her thighs. She smiled as she nuzzled into her pillow. Sandor was caressing her skin. She knew the moment would flee as soon as she was fully awake, but she couldn’t force herself back into slumber.

He had pulled the sheets down along his hand’s journey, and the air was chilly. Sansa reached for the covers but when her hand clutched them and pulled, something stronger pulled in the other direction. There was no one to see but she knew he was there as her heart became a lead weight in her chest.

Not Sandor; _him._

“Sunny,” she whispered, but what could a dog do against an invisible, formless attacker?

“Sandor!” she called out more loudly, and the second syllable was barely through her lips when a strong cold pressure had pinned her to the bed by her neck. She tried to claw at him, but her fingers met no flesh. There was nothing to fight, but it didn’t stop her from flailing and kicking and clawing. Sunny was standing beside her, growling and barking and snapping her jaws in an equally futile effort to defend her master.

The hand maintained its pressure, allowing the slightest bit of air into her lungs and blood into her brain.

_He’s toying with me._

His other hand – at least she thought that’s what the cold touch was, dragged along her body. She felt it at her breast, her waist, her hips. It grabbed at her.

Both hands tightened their respective grips, then suddenly were gone. The cold gave way to warmth. Sansa gulped in air and ran; she ran down the stairs and out to her car, almost falling twice along the way.

Sitting in nothing but her underwear and a t-shirt, she shivered in her car with only a dog for company until the sun rose in the sky. She dared not enter the house a moment before daylight. She didn’t know if it was coincidence or fact, but Gregor seemed more powerful at night. Perhaps Sandor was, as well, but he never used his power to harm her.

She ignored the call of her warm bed and stayed in the house only long enough to get dressed and retrieve her purse and notepad.

She stopped at the door, as had become her custom, and turned to address her ghost, “I don’t know if he can hurt you like he hurts me, but I’m sorry if he did. But I want you to know I’m still not leaving you, Sandor. I’ll be back soon.”

…

The secretary stared at her like she had three heads. Sansa rolled her eyes, “I understand normally you only release records to the individual or legal guardian, but by law, records of people born more than 70 years ago are public domain.”

The woman’s mouth opened and closed a few times before words came out, “What happened to your neck?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your neck. It’s all bruised.” The woman looked around then leaned closer over the counter, “Honey, has someone hurt you? Do you need help?”

Sansa rubbed her neck. The skin felt tender to the touch and judging by the woman’s reaction it was noticeably bruised.

Sansa forced a smile, “Oh not, it’s… well, it’s a long story. But I’m fine. Thank you for your concern. If you can just pull that record for me.”

The woman nodded but looked unconvinced, “Clegane you say?”

“Yes, Gregor. Born in Silverhill, I believe. Probably around 1866.”

The woman excused herself and left Sansa to stand in the vacant lobby of the County Hall of Records. A good ten minutes passed before the woman returned, “Well, we’ve got the birth certificate, but no death certificate, just as you suspected.”

Sansa reached for the document, “Can I make a copy?”

“I’m afraid not; you may look at it, but photocopies are strictly prohibited unless you fill out paperwork and get it approved.”

Sansa nodded, “I guess no one wants me impersonating some 110-year old man.”

The woman laughed, “Stranger things have happened.”

Sansa chuckled herself, “Ma’am, you have no idea.”

She studied the document. Gregor was indeed born in Silverhill to Abnor Clegane and Sandra Brown. He was 9 lbs 6 ounces when he was born, which was at 9:58 PM on Tuesday, August 18, 1866.

Sansa blinked. Had she mixed up Sandor’s birthdate with Gregor’s?

“Everything alright, miss?”

“Yes, um… any chance you can pull another Clegane? This will be Sandor, born 1870.”

The woman nodded and ten minutes later was walking back out with Sandor’s birth certificate.

The women peered down at it through her reading glasses, “Hmm, what do you know? Two Cleganes with the same birthday. Looks like they were brothers.”

Sansa nodded, “They were.”

She knew she was being rude but wasn’t capable of courtesy in that moment. Shirley called out some nicety to her as she walked through the glass doors onto the sidewalk.

…

Sansa poured herself a whiskey then collapsed onto the couch, everything having clicked into place during her drive back from the Records Hall.

“You were born on his birthday,” she spoke after her nerves were sufficiently settled.

“Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad, except that your mother died bringing you into the world. He blamed you, didn’t he? Did you get all your father’s attention each year, being the youngest one? Did you get more gifts? More toys? Whatever the reason, he resented you. That’s why he burned you... He chose to do it on your birthday – his birthday – so you’d never be happy on that day again.

But it wasn’t just you, was it? He was sick, wasn’t he? A monster... He killed Eleanor just a couple days after her birthday, too. Did he do it because he was jealous of the attention she received? Did your father dote on her? Did she remind Abnor of the wife he’d lost? So Gregor killed her?

He killed your father, too. Perhaps the date was a coincidence, this time around. Perhaps he wasn’t _jealous_ of your father, perhaps he simply hated him. Hated him for… for what? I don’t know. Did your father break after Eleanor died? After your _accident_? Had he threatened to tell the truth – that it was no accident at all? Did he suspect Gregor in Eleanor’s death, too?

Can you tell me, Sandor? Can you show me a sign if I’m right?”

Sansa stood up, “Answer me!”

Nothing.

“Fucking answer me!”

“Asshole, I know you can talk, so talk!”

“Talk!”

_“DIG.”_

The voice was unfamiliar and sinister.

“S-sandor?”

Nothing.

“It’s _you_ , isn’t it?”

The cold settled around her, and she didn’t need to be told twice. She ran straight through the backdoor, Sunny at her heels, and didn’t stop until she was at the end of her yard.


	9. Dirt

August 10

Sansa woke in her car, covered in yesterday’s dirt and sweat, and what she feared was a mild case of poison ivy. She’d spent the prior afternoon searching the woods, for what she did not know and was afraid to wonder. She only knew she’d know it when she found it.

She spent the day searching again, walking amongst the thick summer foliage of the woods, taking care not to slip down any embankments or trip over rocks or tree roots. She knew it was dangerous to be out here, alone but for a dog, but who could she rope into a search when she didn’t even know what she was searching for?

Or maybe she did know, and was too afraid to think, much less speak, about it.

August 11

The sun rose and set with no progress being made. Sansa took a more organized approach than she had the prior days. She used spray paint to tag trees every so often, so she’d know which ground she’d covered. She worked from dawn to dusk, only stopping to eat a banana and granola bar and take occasional sips of water from her canteen.

That afternoon, an hour before sunset, she showered. Her car was starting to smell like mud and sweat and pine, which meant _she_ smelled like mud and sweat and pine. Her legs were sore, her cheeks slightly sunburned from the light that filtered through the forest canopy.

As she walked out the front door she called out, “I haven’t given up. I’m still looking.” For once, she wasn’t sure which ghost she was talking to, and was _almost_ too tired to care. She spent another night sleeping in her car. At least this time she had thought to bring a pillow and blankets.

August 12

She searched all day the next quadrant of the woods but found nothing of note. Nothing called to her. Sunny didn’t react other than to occasionally chase a squirrel or rabbit. Sansa envied the dog her boundless supply of energy. At six years old she was older than Sansa, in dog years, yet she never tired and never seemed to lose faith. Though Sansa supposed dogs only put their faith in their masters. As long as Sansa was out in the woods, Sunny would gladly be by her side. Sansa envied that, too. It would be nice to have someone to put all her faith in. To release all her worries when that person was near.

_Sandor._

She shook her head at the notion. He couldn’t be her master, her savior, her _anything_ , because he was the one counting on her. He was trapped in some supernatural plane, perhaps floating like an errant bird feather in a breeze. Or, more likely, trudging through some blurry oblivion like it was quicksand, which the occasional excitement of dealing with the ghost of his evil brother. He was depending on her, and she didn’t know what the fuck she was doing. When Gregor told her to dig, these woods were where her feet carried her without thinking. Now she wondered if she wasn’t in the wrong place entirely. Perhaps she was supposed to dig in the yard. Or the cellar. Or somewhere a hundred miles from here…

_One more day of searching, then I’ll talk to Gregor again._

The idea should be frightening, but exhaustion made it less so. She could have asked him right then and there as she stood in her kitchen that evening watching dog eat kibble while master ate a ham and mustard sandwich. But she wasn’t ready to talk to him yet, to invite his presence – not that she had ever invited him before.

On legs like rubber she walked to her car where she spent another night.

August 13

 _I’m running out of time._ Sansa awoke with that very strong conviction, but didn’t know where it came from, or if it was true. Perhaps her active imagination was placing some importance on the anniversary of Sandor’s birth and death date that wasn’t really there.

With Sunny by her side, she walked what she estimated to be a mile straight into the woods, but then couldn’t move another step. This was the furthest she’d come, her previous searches focusing to the left or right of her rear property line, or the woods immediately behind the property line. This was the first time she just marched straight back, and she barely remembered getting here. Had she even been watching for trip hazards? It felt much like taking a familiar drive and arriving at your destination without remembering a single turn or traffic light.

Now she stood, glued to the spot, and didn’t know what the fuck she was doing. She buried her face in her hands and cried. She was so tired. Utterly exhausted. Exhausted from searching the woods; exhausted from sleeping in her car. Exhausted from worrying about Sandor. Exhausted from the feeling of hopelessness that intensified every day. She knew it was important to find what she was looking for. It was a matter of life and death – though whose life, and whose death, she did not know. But if it was so important, why didn’t Gregor tell her where to dig?

She sat down on a fallen tree trunk and tried to compose herself. She closed her eyes and spoke to Sandor, but he didn’t respond.

She needed to clear her mind, but she was too caught up in self-pity. She tried to think about her woefully neglected book, but that didn’t work. She tried talking about her family, but that didn’t work either.

So she did what she always did when she felt completely despondent. She sang. She sang a song she remembered from when she was a girl. It was an old folk song about a bank robber dying in a shootout with the police. His dying words create the song, which is sung to his wife back home with his newborn daughter. His sweet wife who told him to give up his life of crime. That she could live without a fancy house and dresses and jewels, she just wanted him. When he left the house that day, he had promised her this would be his last heist, and as he died, he realized that he didn’t break the promise, after all.

Sansa opened her eyes and realized she was standing. She spun around until she spotted the tree she’d been sitting on, maybe 30 yards away. Sunny was a few feet from her, pawing and sniffing at the ground. Sansa pushed her aside and began digging. It was morning and she had all day. She wouldn’t stop until she found what she was looking for.

Sometime after midday the hole was four feet deep and three feet across. Tree roots made the work difficult, as she hacked at them with only the spade tip of her shovel. The occasional rock was another hindrance, and each one seemed to mock her with its very geological composition.

At five feet deep she wondered how precise Sunny’s sniffer was, but she didn’t stop. She’d go six feet down – until the earth line was above her head when she stood in the bottom of the hole. If she hadn’t found anything by then, she’d start widening the hole one direction at a time. She’d dig until her hands fell off. She’d dig and dig and dig and dig and

_Clunk._

Sansa blinked and wiped the sweat from her eyes. She had hit something, but the noise produced wasn’t the same as when metal met stone or root. This was something else...

She crouched down as best she could and used her hands to dig around the object. Her nails chipped against the hard-packed dirt, but she didn’t stop.

Eventually she’d uncovered enough of the object to decide it was white and long, and most definitely a bone. Like she knew it would be, but never admitted to herself.

She climbed out of the hole and laid on the forest floor, crying tears of relief which Sunny licked away.

There were only a couple hours of daylight left. Exhausted as she was, time was of the essence. She walked back toward the house, marking her route with an occasional spray of paint on the ground or on a tree. It was a miracle she hadn’t become turned around in the woods since she barely remembered getting to this spot to begin with, but perhaps her subconscious brain recognized subtle clues in the landscape, shrubbery, or position of the sun.

She didn’t bother taking off her dirty shoes or washing her hands. She walked straight to the phone and dialed the police station via the number she’d tacked next to her phone.

When a man answered Sansa cleared her throat, “My name is Sansa Stark, I live at 19 County Road B. I have found what I believe to be human remains in the woods behind my house… Yes, I’ll hold.”

August 14

Sansa naively expected something to happen after finding Gregor’s bones, though in hindsight she didn’t know _what_. Instead it had been another night of same. She slept in the house, thinking Gregor would be placated by her discovery. Instead she heard the same inexplicably creaking floorboards, the general feeling of unease. Occasional coldness or warmness that saturated the air around her.

Now she sat at her kitchen table staring at the sheriff. He was an older man, probably mid-sixties, with thick salt-and-pepper hair and a thick mustache to match.

In her exhaustion the prior night she hadn’t thought of a good explanation for her discovery. Feeling not much refreshed this morning, especially after leading a crew of county medical investigations personnel through the woods, she decided, just as she had with Mitchell and Stewart, that honesty was called for. So what if they thought she was mad? Then she’d live in her house, writing her stories, and become the subject of local lore herself: the mad recluse who lives at the old, haunted farmhouse. Did you hear she once found the bones of a dead guy in the woods behind her property? They say she’s got supernatural powers; can communicate with ghosts and demons. Some say she’s a witch. Some say she’s dead herself and doesn’t know it.

Sansa laughed as every horror trope sped through her mind. Perhaps she’d fill her house with creepy porcelain dolls or adopt a few dozen cats. Local kids would dare each other to step foot on her porch, to peer through her window, to ring her doorbell. She’d play along – chase them off with an old broom or shout some cryptic warning as they pissed themselves running back to their cars.

“Is something funny, miss?”

Sansa looked up at the Sheriff. His name was Philip Grawe. Phil Grawe. The name seemed to fit both his appearance and his position as Sheriff in a nowhere town where nothing ever happened. Not for eighty years, at least.

She only realized by his reaction that she’d been laughing to herself. She cleared her throat, “Sorry, didn’t get much sleep last night. I’ve moved past sleepy to loopy, apparently.”

Phil’s smile was the slightest upturn of one corner of his mustached mouth.

_I bet that’s how Sandor smiles._

“Understandable, Miss, all things considered. Now, can you repeat what you said to us back in the woods, _for the record_ , after you led us to the hole you’d dug?”

Phil flipped open a notepad and clicked a gold pen, the type gifted for a work anniversary.

Sansa nodded, “I said that the bones they find, if they are indeed human bones, will belong to Gregor Clegane. He went missing in 1888.”

Phil pursed his lips, “I’ve heard. Aren’t a lot of crimes in Silverhill. Gregor Clegane’s disappearance is one of our few unopened cases, not that anyone expected to solve it now.”

Sansa nodded again, “Then I suppose you’ll have a physical description of Gregor in the case file. He was purportedly an unusually large man. You can compare the skeletal remains to see if it would match his height and build. If it does, the fact that the remains were found near the property that once belonged to him, and that he’s one of very few missing persons in the town… sounds pretty solid to me.”

Phil was staring at her, dumbfounded, before he cracked another half-smile, “You ought to get a job with the police force, Miss. They’re hiring women left and right now… times are a-changing, indeed. You know I heard of some newfangled science they can use to identify a person through their blood? Or a bit of their hair or skin? _Biological fingerprinting_ , that’s what they call it.”

“Oh yeah?” she asked with genuine but lethargic interest.

“Yessiree. Some scientists down south say they got it all figured out. It was featured in a magazine we get at the station. If they’re right, they’d be able to compare the bones in your woods to the bones of one of them Cleganes out there in the cemetery, assuming we were permitted to exhume a body, that is. They’d know with near certainty if they were close relations.”

“Wow… that’s amazing.”

“Mmhmm… nice to think about, not sure I believe it myself though… Don’t matter, I suppose. I’ll be long gone before technology like that is ever used, other than in a research lab, that is.”

Sansa shrugged, “Don’t be so sure. Progress accelerates exponentially.”

“Huh?”

“Progress. Technological progress. Just think of what the world was like 150 years ago. No automobiles, no air travel, no electricity, no telephone, no cameras, no cassettes… 150 years ago the world was more or less the same as it had been 1,000 years ago. Maybe the clothing was different, maybe the people in power were different, but people’s lives – how they worked, how they fed themselves, it was basically the same. For thousands of years people lived off the land some way or another. Farmers, hunters, ranchers, trappers… families didn’t gather around the television each night. They didn’t drive over to the shopping mall to waste a Saturday. Very few people worked behind a desk. Closest you got to a high-tech job was a blacksmith. Today that job is considered archaic.”

Sansa had been lost in thought and wishing, not for the first time, that she’d been born in a different era.

Phil was staring at her again, with something like awe in his eyes, “You know, Miss, I never thought about that. But I have a feeling I will now – every time I use the old cruiser, or flick on a light switch, or tune in the radio.”

Sansa smiled weakly. There was nothing more to say on the matter.

Phil cleared his throat, “Alright, now we need to talk about what makes you think it is Gregor Clegane’s bones out there, and how you came upon them. For the record, Miss.”

Sansa sighed loudly, “I’d been doing some research on the history of my house after several people mentioned in passing that it’s haunted. I learned Gregor Clegane went missing and was never found. When I found the bones, he seemed like the likely candidate.”

“And why did you go digging out there, anyway?”

Sansa shrugged as she offered something between truth and lie, “I went on a hike with my dog. She began digging at a certain spot in the ground. Quite compulsively, I should add. I’d never seen her behave that way. My curiosity got the better of me.”

Phil smiled, “Then both you _and_ your dog should work for the police force!” Phil reached down to pet Sunny’s head. She was laying quite literally on the man’s boots, though he assured Sansa he didn’t mind one bit.

_“Talk.”_

“I am talking.”

Phil’s eyebrows scrunched together, “I’m sorry, Miss?”

“I said I am talking.”

“I know you are, Miss.”

Sansa’s heart sank into her belly. It hadn’t been Phil that issued the command.

She shook her head, knowing she was about to _really_ sound crazy, but being too tired to care, “Gregor Clegane was killed by his younger brother, Sandor Clegane, just as the town residents suspected.”

Phil eyed her skeptically, “What makes you—”

“I just know. Perhaps you’ll find some injury to the skeleton that shows cause of death. Regardless, he was obviously murdered. Why else would someone bury the body six feet down a mile into dense woods?”

“Right. I agree with that. But how do you know it was the brother?”

Sansa sighed, “I just know. But for the record, Sandor didn’t kill his sister or father. That was Gregor.”

Sansa’s mug, which she hadn’t even been touching, flew across the kitchen and shattered against the refrigerator. She stood up angrily, “It’s the truth! You want me to tell them the truth, they’re going to hear the _whole_ truth!”

Sansa sat back down heavily, ignoring the look of utter bafflement in Phil’s blue eyes, “As I was saying, Gregor also was the one who burned little Sandor, set fire to his face, or to his bedding.”

The cold settled around her, but all she countered with was anger. No fear. “I found your bones, now leave me alone,” she growled.

“Miss Stark?”

“I told them it was Sandor that killed you. What more do you want?”

Phil stood up, desperately trying to gain control of the situation, “Miss Stark!”

Sansa ignored the sheriff’s panicked voice. She closed her eyes, “Tell me what you want.”

Nothing.

“Tell me!”

Nothing.

Sansa stood up again, “Sandor, are you there? Do you know what he wants?”

Nothing.

“Tell me, please!”

Sansa ran her hands through her hair, re-examining everything she had learned about the Cleganes over the past weeks. She started at the beginning.

_Sandra Brown Clegane dies bringing Sandor into the world._

_Sandor burned on his birthday, the anniversary of their mother’s death._

_Eleanor dies just after her birthday._

_Abnor dies just after his birthday._

_Gregor killed by Sandor. Allegedly._

_Sandor kills himself on his birthday._

She laughed to herself. She had nothing to go on, other than birthdays and death days. A whole list of names, birthdays, and death days. In all this time, all this work, everything she’d learned could be deduced simply by venturing into the local cemetery and reading four grave markers. That was it. Four graves. Four Cleganes, and another soon to be joining them.

Her head snapped up, startling the poor old sheriff, “How long will it take to remove Gregor’s bones?”

Phil blinked at her dumbly but eventually answered with a shrug, “Maybe tomorrow, assuming the bones are all together and not scattered.”

Sansa nodded, “They will be. He was buried whole; I just know it.”

Phil nodded, “Tree roots and earth settling can push things around, but they should all be within a certain radius, I’d venture.”

“And when can his remains be buried at the cemetery, with his family?”

Phil winced as he sat back down, “Not sure. There will obviously be a medical examination, but other than an educated guess we can’t rightly say that the bones belonged to Gregor Clegane. He’ll be buried in an unmarked grave, most likely.”

Sansa shook her head rapidly, “No… no… he _needs_ to be buried with his family.”

Phil arched a skeptical brow, “The family he murdered, or was murdered by, according to you?”

“His mother, Sandra Brown Clegane. I suspect she’s the only one that matters. Maybe Eleanor, too. I’m certain he killed Abnor; Eleanor could have been an accident.”

Phil lifted his hands, “Miss Stark, I can’t just call him Gregor Clegane and bury him next to his family.”

“Then who can?”

He shrugged again, “The coroner, I suppose, but only if there is a definitive identifying characteristic in the skeleton.”

Sansa clapped her hands together, “Yes! Of course. If he’d been injured at some point in his life, a broken arm or leg, it would show in the corresponding bone. Please, Sheriff Grawe, _please_ check through his file for anything – _anything_ that can identify him!”

Phil pursed his lips, “I’ll do what I—” 

There was a light rapping on the backdoor. Phil practically jumped out of his chair at the sound, causing Sansa to snigger. _Amateur._

“Sheriff, there’s something you ought to see.”

Sansa and Phil walked to the back porch. One of the medical investigators, his gray coveralls covered in dirt, held out a small jar, the type used for making preserves, Sansa guessed.

“Was wondering if you knew the names mentioned herein,” the man added before using gloved fingers to pull a slip of paper out of the jar with much care.

He unrolled and held the paper for Phil to see. Sansa read over his shoulder after an objection from the young investigator was silenced by a glare from the old sheriff.

> _20 August 1888_
> 
> _Here lays the body of Gregor Clegane, aged 22._
> 
> _I leave this note not cause I care what happens to his corps, but so if its ever found it won’t be mis-taken for some other missing folk._
> 
> _I kilt him early morn of August 19 with a gun-shot to the head. Too mercyful beleave me._
> 
> _He try’d to kill me when I was 6. Only wish he seceded._
> 
> _He kilt my sister Eleanor when she was 11. He made me lie and say it were a horse but it weren’t. He thru her against a wall cause he was mad. He was allways mad. He kicked her in the chest so as it looked like a horse kick. I seen it with mine own eyes._
> 
> _He kilt my daddy Abnor too. I ~~supse~~ suspected but did not know for certin till Gregor told me few days ago._
> 
> _Don’t know why he never kilt me. Think burning my face was punishment enough tho I was beat plenty too o’er the years._
> 
> _2 nites ago on our birth-day he came home angry and drunk. No suprise. We foat for hours. He said it was time. Was bout to kill me with a knife but I shot him faster._
> 
> _Was gonta burn him but best if he rots cause his sole is rotten. May be daddy’s goast is in the wood and will haunt him._
> 
> _With Gods as my witness._
> 
> _Sandor Clegane_

Sansa didn’t bother hiding her tears from either man. There was no shame in crying for the poor tortured soul who was Sandor Clegane. She wanted to touch the paper that he held almost a hundred years ago. She craved that physical connection. Her ghost had written this note, and the words were just as she expected from him. She didn’t fault him for his grammar, she knew education back then was mostly done at home, and that children who were raised on farms only learned the bare minimum since they’d spend their entire lives laboring. That he could read or write at all was impressive.

But the words themselves – the _tone…_ it was so Sandor. There were no embellishments. There was no pleading for forgiveness or even making excuses for his crime other than the bare facts. He never let the town know about his brother’s crimes, because he was practical, and there was no practical reason to do so. He couldn’t bring back Eleanor or Abnor by speaking the truth, so he never spoke it. Only wrote it on a piece of paper and buried it six feet down, and even then it wasn’t so he’d someday be vindicated, it was so Gregor’s bones would never be misidentified, which might give false hope to some other family, or end up with Gregor’s bones being buried somewhere they didn’t belong. And maybe part of Sandor did it so the truth could eventually breathe.

Phil and the young man talked for a bit before the man headed toward a van, but Sansa heard none of it. Phil turned to look at her, “Well, lab will authenticate it, make sure it really was written in the 1800s and not that it was some prank. Same for the bones and the jar. Assuming the dates match, I don’t see why anyone would doubt it’s Gregor Clegane.”

Sansa nodded.

Phil clicked his tongue, seemingly debating his next words very carefully, “There’s one other thing I can do to be certain. I think you might want to see this.”

Sansa looked back at him, perplexed, but she trusted the man.

Phil called out to a deputy who seemed to more or less be keeping an eye on the property to make sure no nosey townsfolk came by, then opened the door for Sansa to hop into his cruiser.


	10. Souls

Fluorescent light from the hallway spilled into the dark space from bottom to top as Phil lifted the ridged metal door. Man and door alike groaned.

He fumbled for a switch and once the lights flicked on Sansa could see the storage unit was filled with rows of metal shelving. Some were empty, others contained white and brown boxes. Some were the size of shoeboxes; others were banker’s boxes or larger.

Phil went to the row on the far left and it took him only a minute to find what he was looking for. He pulled a box off the shelf and sat it on the ground, mouth groaning and knees cracking as he lowered himself down.

Sansa hadn’t moved an inch. Phil offered no explanation of where they were, but she wagered this storage unit was owned by the Silverhill Police Department.

“You wanna have a look or not?” he grumbled.

Sansa joined him, kneeling tentatively on the cold, concrete floor. It was only then she noticed the name written in black marker on one side of the box: _Clegane, Sandor_

Her hand trembled against her lips as she looked at Phil with watery eyes.

Phil smiled sadly, “Evidence box this old woulda been destroyed long ago, but it’s not like we needed the space,” Phil gestured to the empty shelves on the other side of the room, “Plus I suppose someone figured with the brother being a missing person, might come in handy someday.”

Sansa nodded but felt utterly stupefied.

Phil lifted the box lid. A variety of objects were contained, but it was overwhelming so her eyes couldn’t really focus on any single one of them. 

She looked to Phil and he nodded with a hint of smile on his lips.

She began rooting through the box, finding things like a pocket watch, a woman’s broach, locks of baby hair – two black and one auburn – and other humble possessions that would have been cherished by a 19th century family.

There was also a stack of letters that appeared to have been sent to Sandra Brown Clegane from someone related to her – a _J. Brown_ in Riverrun.

There were sketches of Abnor, Gregor, and little Eleanor, each signed _S Clegane._ Abnor was not a handsome man, but Sandra somehow captured the warmth in his eyes. Gregor was only a tyke, with dark hair and eyes and an impish smile. Eleanor was also a baby in her sketch, smiling with the unregulated joy that toddlers have.

There was a diary that seemed to also belong to Sandra. With Phil’s permission Sansa flipped through it. Each entry was dated, and the penmanship was neat and formal, a flourished style that was a lost artform, in Sansa’s opinion. Sansa didn’t read much of it, but an entry in October 1868 caught her eye. It was shorter than the others and Sansa quickly realized why – it was written soon after Sandra gave birth to Eleanor. No doubt she was tired and busy with a small child in Gregor and an infant in Eleanor.

> _24 October 1868_
> 
> _My little girl is a happy thing, not fussy at all like Gregor was, the poor boy. She sleeps through the night soundly, nurses easily, and barely cries._

Sansa chuckled; her mother often described Sansa as her “best baby” – her other siblings were fussy, whiny, and in some cases colicky.

> _While there is no doubting Gregor is his father’s son, Abnor jokes that Eleanor is all me. If he were a less trusting man, certainly he’d have comments to make._
> 
> _She has auburn hair, blue eyes, fair skin. I’m certain her eyes won’t fade to grey, nor will her skin darken in the sun as her father and brother tend to do._

Sansa smiled; no wonder Sandor liked her, she probably reminded him of his sister. Perhaps that also meant her presence saddened him somewhat; no doubt he didn’t like thinking of his sister’s death and his role in covering it up.

> _Little Gregor will need some time to adjust to the role of “big brother”. He has always been momma’s boy. I sometimes think he is jealous when I hold Eleanor, but I explained how babies are fed, and that I used to feed him the same way. Abnor is trying to compensate by letting Gregor tag along during everything he does, but the poor child still runs into my arms when he’s gone more than a few hours without seeing me. Am I a cruel mother for relishing my son’s dependence on me? It makes me feel so loved. Perhaps Eleanor will grow up to be a daddy’s girl, so Abnor and I will each have our own little shadow._
> 
> _Though Abnor is already talking about another child. He dreams of another son and has already picked out a name: Sandor. An amalgam of my and his names. I learned this because I told him I wanted to name our daughter after me. Not Sandra, but something similar, like Sanya. Abnor can have his “OR boys” as I now call them, let me name our daughters. I lost that battle, needless to say, but I can’t be too bothered. He is a good man, loving husband, and wonderful father. He is good to me and works hard, so I’ll give him a whole houseful of OR babies if it pleases him._
> 
> _My sweet girl is hungry now, and I’d best start on supper for my Clegane men, big and small._

Sansa blinked at the entry while Phil rifled through the box.

_Sanya._

_Sansa._

_Red hair, blue eyes, fair skin._

_Mild tempered._

“That’s too bad,” Phil scrunched his lips, “Was hoping for something with Sandor’s handwriting on it, so we could compare.”

Sansa’s trance was broken by his words, “Are there more boxes?”

“Just the one with the man’s guns, as I recall. I suppose it can’t hurt to check.”

Phil leaned heavily on a shelf to push himself up, “Don’t ever get old, Miss.”

While Phil shook life back into his feet and went to get the second box, Sansa quickly slipped two items into her purse: Sandra’s diary and the sketch of baby Eleanor.

“Ah-hah!” Phil smiled, “Look at this!” Phil dangled a small evidence bag in front of him. Sansa squinted to see what it was.

“Shopping list,” Phil answered her unspoken question, “Written by Sandor Clegane himself for the grocer’s boy that delivered his food and provisions. Looks like we have a sample for comparison.”

Sansa returned Phil’s smile but couldn’t shake the feeling that none of it mattered anymore.

…

“Where did you get this?” her mother’s brow knitted.

“I’ll tell you, then. Just answer my question… please, Mom.”

Catelyn Stark shrugged, “Well, yes it reminds me of someone: _you!”_

Sansa of course had baby photos of herself to compare to the sketch, but she needed an unbiased eye. It was difficult to compare a pencil sketch to a color photograph, and she worried that her mind would see resemblance that wasn’t really there. Who better to recognize a drawing of a baby than that baby’s mother?

Sansa sat down heavily on her parents’ sofa, “That’s what I thought.”

“Who’s _S Clegane_?” Mom inquired. 

Sansa sighed, “Sandra Clegane. A woman who died in childbed in the very house I now live in. She sketched this drawing of her baby daughter, Eleanor.”

Catelyn smiled, not registering anything alarming, “Well isn’t that something?! We’ve got to show your father.”

Arya had wandered over and was speaking around a mouthful of olives, “Who’s the ugly baby?”

“Arya!” Catelyn scolded.

Arya chuckled, “I’m just messing with you. I know it’s Sansa. Who drew it?”

Catelyn let out a demure giggle herself, “ _Doesn’t_ it look like Sansa? It’s of some girl that lived in Sansa’s house at some point.”

“Wait – is she related to your ghost?”

Sansa’s eyes widened; she hadn’t told her parents _anything_ about the oddities at her house.

Skeptical, believe-it-when-I-see-it Catelyn Stark chuckled again, “Oh don’t tell me you think your house is haunted?”

Sansa shook her head, “No, Mom, just made some stuff up to scare Arya, Bran, and Rick.”

Sansa didn’t give her mom a chance to reply. She was leading Arya by the arm up to the childhood bedroom they once shared.

As soon as the door was shut Arya peppered her with questions, “Who is she? Is she related to your ghost? Or is _she_ actually your ghost? How did you get that drawing?”

Sansa sat down on her pink bed and told Arya everything. She and the rest of Sansa’s family already knew about the bones being found because it had been on the news, but they didn’t know the truth of how and why Sansa found them.

“Holy shit,” Arya plopped next to her sister. “This is off-the-charts freaky. So he killed his sister and father, burned his little brother, then the little brother grew up and killed him. Now they both haunt your house, and one or both of them possesses you to find the bones in the woods.” She shook her head in incredulity. Sansa could only share the sentiment.

Arya stood abruptly and began pacing the room in concentration, “How do movies get produced? Like, how do they get funded? Because I _need_ to make a movie out of this. This is way scarier than the boogey man or zombies or vampires.”

Sansa sighed, “You seem to be skipping over the part where I think that _I’m_ the sister who was killed. I mean, not literally her, but her _spirit_ … or soul… _something_.”

“I’m not ignoring that part, just trying to make sense of it.”

“Any luck?”

Arya pursed her lips, “No, but I have an idea…”

…

“This is so tacky,” Sansa scolded Arya in a whisper as they sat in _Lady Melisandre’s_ shop, waiting to be led to the backroom after the current customer was finished.

“It’s not tacky, it’s legit, alright?”

“She has beaded curtains, red candles, incense… if I go back there and she has a crystal ball, I’m outta here.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “She doesn’t have a crystal ball, or tarot cards, or anything else.”

“Palm reader then?”

“Noooo… she just… ungh… she just can _read_ you, okay? She will look into your eyes and tell you about yourself.”

“So you’ve had a reading before?”

Arya nodded, “Yeah. She told me I’m a young soul. And that sometimes the best way to explore the world is by sitting still.”

“That’s it? I’ve had better fortunes cookies.”

“There was other stuff, I don’t remember all of it. I was kinda high at the time.”

“Sansa Stark,” a woman’s smooth voice called from the backroom. Sansa looked up to find another woman walking toward the exit, a teary smile on her face.

Sansa stood up, “Can my sister join us?”

Melisandre inclined her head, “Arya Stark. Hello again. As long as you’re at ease in your sister’s presence, then yes.”

Sansa was surprised that the backroom was sparsely furnished and had few decorative accents. It was more like a police interrogation room than a fortune teller’s enchanted space.

Sansa and Arya sat down, separated only by a round table from Melisandre. She was a strikingly beautiful woman, though Sansa suspected her crimson hair was a dye job.

“You’ve come for answers,” Melisandre stated bluntly.

“Doesn’t everyone?”

Melisandre studied her eyes. It was hard not to avert her gaze.

“You are an old soul. A tortured soul. You’ve lived many lives; few have been long; most have been short.”

Sansa didn’t now what to say, so she said nothing.

“You are very attuned to the other planes; did you know this?”

Sansa shrugged but Arya chimed in, “What do you mean _planes_ plural? I thought there were only two planes.”

“There are many planes. An infinite number. All happening now, even if they’re also happening long ago.”

“What does that mean?” Sansa asked.

Melisandre’s brow raised slightly, “It means what it means. There aren’t better words to explain it. But I don’t think I need to explain it to _you_.”

Sansa lowered her eyes. She would speak no more. Let Melisandre talk; give her no material to use to weave tales and lies.

Melisandre sighed, “You seek a certain soul in particular. Your bond was broken long ago, but not so very long ago. Do you understand?”

_Sandor._

Sansa raised her head, already breaking her own rule, “Yes,” she whispered.

Melisandre nodded, “Your problem is that you are seeking, when you should be finding.”

“What? What’s the difference?”

The woman shrugged, “One is an action. The other is… a state of being.”

“Please,” Sansa recognized the pleading tone in her voice, “I need more than that. Tell me how to set him free.”

“Free? There is no ‘free’. We are all bound to this world until our time is done. But that is not the question you truly wish to ask, is it?”

Sansa wiped an unwelcome tear from her lashes. As had happened so many times in the past months, someone’s simple words planted an epiphany in her heart. Only this time did the person do so purposefully.

Perhaps at some point she wanted him to be free, whatever that meant. To have his soul move on to the heavens, or even the hells, so long as it wasn’t stuck in the limbo of an old farmhouse where he existed only as a specter.

But somewhere along the way she feared the prospect of losing him. She wanted his presence in whatever form she could have it. She wanted to boot Gregor to the Seven Hells, but Sandor she wanted for herself. Her ghost, her constant companion. Her heart yearned for him as it had never yearned for anything before. Her chest ached as if she’d been left at the altar by the love of her life, even though he’d never been her lover and he’d never left her.

She met Melisandre’s glare with renewed conviction, “I want to ask… how can I… is it possible…” She sighed, “How do I see him?”

Melisandre’s shoulders lifted, “By opening your eyes.”

Sansa shook her head, “No, I mean… how can I…” she glanced at Arya, who no doubt would find her next words to sound crazy, but Melisandre was Sansa’s best chance, “How can I _be_ with him?”

Melisandre smiled knowingly, “By opening your heart.”

There was no more helpful advice to be gotten from the woman people called the Red Witch, not that anything she’d said had been particularly helpful.

Arya seemed irritated, no doubt finding all of Melisandre’s words to have been meaningless. They weren’t meaningless to Sansa; they just weren’t _helpful_. She didn’t realize it until now, but she was seeking a prescriptive method. A guidebook for bridging the gap between the real and the supernatural. All she got were cryptic phrases.

“Sansa,” Melisandre called just as the girls were almost at the exit door.

“Yes?”

Melisandre walked to a bookshelf, then pulled out a paperback book and extended it toward Sansa.

Arya grabbed it instead, “$4.95? Trying to get _more_ money from my sister?”

Melisandre shrugged, “Take it. Keep it if you wish; return it if you don’t.”

Sansa reached for the book. It wasn’t particularly thick, or old. She could probably read it in one weekend.

 _“Soul Cycles,”_ Sansa read the title aloud.

Melisandre offered a small smile, then disappeared back into her lair.


	11. Bones

It took Sansa precisely fourteen hours to read the book from cover to cover. Those fourteen hours were spread across two days – a Friday and Saturday, during which she did little else.

She read the book aloud as much as she could, thinking Sandor might be able to listen. He’d been mostly quiet since Gregor’s bones were found. She felt his warmth at times, but never heard his voice. She dreamed a few times, but the dreams were not about him. They were about no one she knew, no one she recognized.

The book tackled the topic of reincarnation from a spiritual and at times scientific point of view. It cited cases of people remembering past lives with uncanny details that historians could attribute to certain figures who lived in the past. There was a woman who dreamed about being a king who reigned more than a thousand years ago. The woman herself didn’t even know of the king’s existence except in her dreams. She believed her subconscious mind had created him and went to a psychiatrist because the dreams were disturbing. The king was cruel and vicious to his enemies and allies alike. The woman convinced herself she was some repressed psychopath, and thus sought medical help. It just so happened that her doctor was a history buff, and after a few sessions he recognized the king the woman was describing.

Other chapters tried to explain _why_ souls are recycled, so to speak. That each soul must reach a certain maturity. That only when the soul transcends a certain level will it get to shed its worldly form and join the other transcended souls in the _eternal plane_. That’s the secular term the book used in lieu of the word “heavens” or even “afterlife”. It was the only plane in which there was no construct of time; no visible, tangible manifestations. Sansa liked this idea. She wondered if that’s where Sandor’s soul would go once it was free. Then she wondered how long before her soul would join his there.

The chapter that was most resonant to Sansa, however, was the one about _bonded souls_. The author believed that _soulmates_ transcend lifetimes, and that the term could but didn’t necessarily imply a romantic connection. In one lifetime the bonded souls may be father and son. In another life best friends. In another life husband and wife. Brother and sister. Sister and sister. Grandmother and grandchild.

This was one of the chapters she read aloud, because she knew without a shadow of a doubt that Sandor’s soul was her soul’s mate. She knew they’d been siblings once, and who knew what they’d been before that, or for how long. The author claimed it could take many lifetimes before souls found their bonded mate, but once they did, they would never separate.

Sansa remembered Melisandre’s words… that Sansa had lived many short and tortured lives. She wondered how many of those lives occurred between Sandor’s death – the day he became trapped in the house, or in that plane – and Sansa’s birth. Had his absence been the reason her lives were short and painful? Had her soul always mourned its lost other half? Had some primal knowledge been the reason she found this house and fell in love with it?

Unfortunately, the book offered no explanation or remedy for trapped souls. And at the end of the day, that’s all Sansa cared about. The idea of growing old and grey, of dying and leaving this body that had at least _some_ connection to her soulmate, frightened her deeply. It wasn’t just fear for herself; it was also for _him._ What if she never found him again in her future lives? What if she was born so far away that she’d never venture back to this farmhouse? What if his soul was doomed to spend eternity here, trapped in the farmhouse, or perhaps tethered to the very ground on which it stood?

…

Sansa felt like a ghost herself as the days turned into weeks. It was late September. August 18th – Sandor’s birth and death day – came and went without incident. Sansa remembered waking that morning filled with hope. She checked every room in the house, expecting to find a tall, scarred man. It was silly, of course. Even if his soul was released, that physical body would not suddenly materialize. That body was dead – he’d done that to himself. No, he’d be born into a new body. Hopefully a body belonging to someone Sansa knew. A niece or nephew, perhaps. An irrational part of Sansa’s mind felt compelled to go out and get herself knocked up by someone – _anyone_ – so that Sandor’s soul would have a vessel to enter. He’d become her son or daughter, and that would be something, at least.

But his soul was still in the house, of that much she was certain. As was Gregor’s, she thought, but he’d been quiet. Both of the ghosts were quiet, but not in a peaceful sense, more like in a pensive way. And she was the same. Going through the motions of a living person but feeling like she, too, was in limbo. Not quite living, and not quite dead. She was trapped here just as they were, waiting for something that may never happen, waiting for someone who may never come.

Some nights she read aloud from Sandra’s diary in a halfhearted attempted to discern some clue or even unwittingly speak some words that would lift this curse. But most nights she just laid in bed, adrift and powerless.

…

It was a Monday when she received the call.

After she answered he cleared his gruff voice, “Hello, Miss Stark. It’s Phil Grawe.”

“Sheriff Grawe, nice to speak to you again.”

“Likewise, Miss. Hope you’re doing well. Did you read the newspaper this morning?”

“No. Is it about Gregor?”

“Mmhmm… the reporter who wanted to interview you, remember?”

“Yes. She was quite persistent.”

Phil chuckled, “That she is. Well, anyway, she wrote up a story. More or less summarized everything you and I already know, but now with the ability to place blame where it’s due, thanks to Sandor Clegane’s letter.”

“Mmm… Well I’ll drive over to the gas station later and grab a copy.”

Phil groaned, “You should know it mentions that you’re the one who found Gregor’s remains.”

“Yes, I imagine it would.”

Phil groaned, “Well it also implies that you had some… I don’t know what you’d call it, _divine guidance_? And that’s what led you to his burial site.”

Sansa sighed. It was disappointing but not surprising. “I understand. I suppose I may get some visitors.”

“Might be. I don’t think many city folk will drive all the way out here, but any who do may be… well, may be a bit eccentric.”

“Understood. I’ll be extra vigilant. Thanks, Phil.”

“One other thing, Miss.”

“Yes?”

“Well, I’m not sure you want to be there, but now that the investigation is officially complete, Gregor’s bones will be laid to rest alongside his family’s.”

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm… tomorrow, 2 o’clock. Damn newspaper article should’ve come out a few days later. Bunch of folks will show up, no doubt, just for the spectacle.”

“Right. Thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem, Miss. You take care.”

…

Sansa was dressed like a grieving widow, not that she was either, as she stood far back from the other onlookers. She didn’t want to call attention to herself, so the black hood of her rain jacket was pulled up to hide her bright hair, and she wore dark, oversized sunglasses to obscure her face.

As the plain pine coffin was lowered into the hole next to Sandra Clegane (Sansa wondered if Phil had something to do with that) Sansa felt no sense of accomplishment or vindication.

It was only when her eyes drifted to the far right that she felt any twang of emotion. Perhaps she was grieving, after all, but not for some recently unearthed pile of bones. Perhaps she even felt a bit like a widow, for what else would a widow feel if not deprived of her other half?

It wasn’t some sisterly affection she felt toward the man whom she didn’t even know. Nor was it a platonic kinship. It _did_ feel like she had lost a lover. Perhaps that was to be his soul’s destiny in this lifetime, if he could make it here. Or perhaps it was to be her destiny after Eleanor died, to come back as a woman Sandor would fall in love with, if only he hadn’t killed himself before they could be reunited.

The emotions were confusing, to put it mildly. It was the way she felt after the end of her first serious relationship, during college. Her girlfriends encouraged her to move on by dating another guy, but Sansa wasn’t ready. It took months before her heart healed and she felt like herself again.

But this feeling was even more pronounced. It felt like no amount of time would erase the longing in her heart, the melancholy that had settled behind her eyes and within her bones.

_Does he feel it, too? Is he trying to get back to me, in some form or another?_

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and luckily no one was looking in her direction or they’d surely wonder about the strange woman crying over the bones of a murderer and all-around dislikeable man who died long before she was born.

She stared at the place she knew Sandor’s body rested, even if not his soul.

“Come back to me,” she whispered, barely audible even to her own ears. The command was lost among the breeze and the quiet mumblings of those _good_ _people_ who came to watch a train wreck.

 _Come back to me_ , she repeated, this time only in her mind.

It became a mantra she was powerless to stifle on the way back to her lonely house.

Or while she prepared a simple dinner for herself, even though she had no appetite.

Or while she took a bubble bath, disappointed that the warm water couldn’t reach the parts of her that needed soothing.

Or while she laid in bed that night, bundled up against the early autumn breeze.

It still wasn’t enough; she wanted to spend the whole night voicing her plea, but when she felt herself begin to nod off, she resigned herself to the fact that another day had come and gone, but nothing had changed.

Much like a child, sleepiness brought crankiness. Tears came too easily; emotions were expressed too readily.

“I need you. I love you. Come back to me.”


	12. Yellow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you prefer ambiguous endings, I encourage you to consider chapter 11 the end.

Something was different. The house was never this bright, nor this warm. The mattress was never this firm. Nor was every feeling, every sensation, this pronounced. From scalp to toe there was feeling. Not pain, perhaps, but just… awareness. Existence.

Everything had been the same for… for an eternity. Wake up, go to sleep. No change. No anything. Just the barest form of existence. The only rifts in the fabric of banality were when _he_ was there. And, more recently, when _she_ was there.

His half-awake brain registered differences that would have been alarming, if he hadn’t felt so bloody content. The bedding was yellow, and softer than anything he’d ever felt. The curtains were yellow, too, though the window they adorned was unchanged. There was a strange thing on the bedside table, which itself was also unfamiliar. It was _white_. Who the hell would paint a piece of good wood furniture such a garish shade of _white?_ Might as well be purple or orange or green.

 _He_ was among the things in the room that were different, too. He didn’t wake in the dirty slacks and denim shirt he wore every day for… for however long it had been. No, by the smoothness of the bedding against his skin he knew he was decidedly _nude._ For a moment it occurred to him that he wasn’t really himself, but a cursory glance found the familiar chest, cock, and legs he knew to be his own. A swipe of hand to cheek found the same old scars, though to less comfort.

At his movement something stirred beside him.

_Gregor. Has to ruin the first pleasant morning I’ve had since getting stuck in this fucking nightmare._

But as he rolled to his back he was met with a face. A dog’s face. A happy dog’s face. He blinked at it, too confused to scold it for wandering into the house and into his bed. The hounds always slept outside. But no – this wasn’t one of their hounds. And besides, their hounds had been gone for… for years. He let them all go when he got tired of watching Gregor beat them.

This nervy fucking dog he didn’t know was now wagging its tail and licking his face. He wanted to be mad but couldn’t. He smiled instead, using long-dormant muscles. After all this time he was permitted company. A woman would’ve been nice, but he’d settle for a dog. Less aggravation, that’s for sure.

“Sunny, settle down, I’m trying to sleep.”

Now that was _not_ a dog. It was a woman. A voice coming from somewhere on the other side of the dog. A voice _so_ familiar, _so_ lovely... but never had she spoken so much. Never ever.

He turned to look for her, both terrified and hopeful that she would be there, in the flesh, after all this time of only catching glimpses of her out of the corner of his eye, or the ghost of her fingertips on him, or random words he was never sure he really heard, that sometimes made sense, and sometimes didn’t.

He pushed the dog aside and indeed, she was there. Or at least her hair was. Red hair, the reddest hair he’d seen since Eleanor. The rest of her was buried under the yellow blanket, but he could tell by the length and curve of her silhouette that she was indeed a woman, not a girl. He’d felt as much, but never been completely sure, because sometimes she reminded him of his sister, who’d never made it to womanhood.

The dog didn’t like to be ignored, apparently. It barked once right in his face.

“Dammit, Sunny! I’m trading you in for a cat!” The woman flung the covers off and climbed out of bed, turning to face the dog but eyes widening as they fell on Sandor instead.

Sandor was certain his eyes were just as wide, and his mouth similarly agape. The woman was stunning even seconds after sleep. He’d seen her only twice. The first time in a dream – a painfully familiar dream, the dream that haunted him every night with the vision of his own corpse. She had been an interloper just the one time, inspecting and touching his corpse, but as he could only watch from above, as always, he didn’t get a very good look at her before she was screaming so loudly it snapped him back to consciousness.

The second time she was sitting at the edge of his bed. Why she appeared in that moment he didn’t know. He had touched her face and her hands, as she’d done to him in the dream. But it didn’t feel quite real. She was warm but not solid, and her features were blurred, as if he were looking at her through someone else’s spectacles.

But now? Now she was clear as day, standing before him in an odd white shirt as bright as the night table, and tiny underpants as black as he’d only seen in men’s top hats and coats.

They stared at each other for long moments. Minutes, perhaps. But while her eyes were fixed on his face, his wandered impatiently over her entire body, mouth going dry.

_My ghost is beautiful._

_But if she’s become flesh, then Gregor…_

“Fuck,” he growled. He flung off the covers and walked to stand in front of her, wondering why she didn’t retreat or even flinch. He grabbed both her arms. They were real, they were warm, they were so soft his cock would have surged if he weren’t so damned terrified.

“I don’t know how the fuck you’re here, but you need to leave before he comes back.”

She blinked at him, her eyes seemingly scanning through a hundred invisible questions before settling on one, “Who?”

“Gregor.”

She smiled then, “He’s gone, Sandor.”

“No, he’s never gone. He can never leave until—”

“Until the truth of his death is revealed? Until his bones are laid with his – _your_ – mother?”

This time it was him blinking at her. How did she know this? How did she know about the curse? The curse that bound Sandor unwillingly to his house, only to be haunted for an eternity by his brother’s ghost until it got what it wanted – until it got what Sandor was sure it would never get.

He shook his head, “You’re Sansa.”

She smiled, “You do know my name.”

Her apparent peace with the situation was disturbing. Was the girl daft?

“How did you get here?” he barked.

She smiled, “I live here. How did _you_ get here?”

“ _I_ live here.”

Her smile faded, “Sandor, I think perhaps you’re confused. It’s perfectly understandable. Maybe we should… um, find you something to wear, then talk downstairs. Are you hungry?”

“Hungry?”

“Yes; for food.”

“I… I don’t know.”

Her smile returned, “Well, I’ll make something, and your stomach will tell you if you’re hungry. I’m afraid I don’t have any clothes that will fit you, but—”

Sandor looked down at himself and took a big step back from Sansa, grabbing the blanket to cover his groin. He looked back at her, “Sorry. It’s alright, I have clothes in the closet.”

She winced, then walked over to open the closet door. Inside hung more clothing than anyone would need in ten lifetimes, and in every shade of the rainbow. Bright greens and blues, pinks and reds… the darkest blacks and brightest whites… it was all hideous, and all odd. It was too small to be men’s clothing, but most of it wasn’t the dresses or gowns a woman would wear.

She seemed amused by his appraisal, even as he was going mad trying to figure out where all his shirts and slacks and overalls had gone.

“I’ll go into town and get you some clothes today. In the meantime…” she left the room and returned with a piece of rectangular fabric that was fluffy and pink with a gold fringe at two edges.

“It’s a towel,” she stated, as if that explained everything.

“Alright…”

“Just wrap it around your waist, then come downstairs. I assume you want to talk before I go into town. The stores won’t be open yet, anyway.”

“How will you get to town?” He was worried for her now. If she joined him, did that mean she was subject to the same curse? Trapped within the house?

She scrunched her face, “I don’t suppose you know what accar is, do you?”

“Accar?”

She smiled, “Just… come downstairs. We’ll talk.” She retrieved some garments out of a drawer then left, presumably to dress in another room.

…

Sandor sat amongst the oddities and all the strange noises they made. The big yellow box with doors kept things cold, Sansa explained. She retrieved cream from there for their coffee, but it was thin, more like the milk beneath the cream. The stove was strange, too. It clicked a few times, an irritating sound, then flame came out of it. Sandor jumped when that happened. No match, no flint, just turn a knob and _fire_. An ugly clock on the wall ticked too loudly, and its face was too severe. Strange things littered the countertops and hung on the walls. The tile on the tabletop was too shiny, and it clanked loudly every time he put his cup down. The cup was too heavy, too. Thick stoneware, and too large for coffee. A beer perhaps, or sarsaparilla, but not coffee.

Then again, this coffee was thin and weak, so perhaps people drank more of it and thus needed larger cups.

“Sandor,” Sansa reached across the table, taking his hand like they were old friends, “I certainly can’t explain everything, but the important thing is that you’re here. We’re together. Gregor is gone. You’re free. Okay? So just remember that, no matter how overwhelming the rest of it is.”

He nodded, though he’d yet to see how he was free.

She saw his doubt, for her lips pressed together in displeasure, “Have you been able to leave this house? Even to go into the yard, for instance?”

He shook his head, “Trapped within the walls of the house.”

She smiled sadly, “Then, perhaps before we talk, you’d like to go outside.”

He crossed his arms, “Don’t work.”

She stood up and walked to the backdoor, “Let’s see,” she held one hand out to him as the other pushed open the door.

He stood to walk toward her, carefully. He recognized his movements as slow and skittish, but he could infuse no confidence into his stride, and not just because it would part this pink fabric and reveal his swaying cock.

He stood at the threshold, waiting for the feeling to hit him. The oppressive force, the weight of a buffalo steering him back into the prison that was once his home.

But nothing came. He smelled air and grass and flowers and dirt, and it seeped into his very skin.

Sansa’s hand was still outstretched, and he took it. Then stepped outside. Just like that. They walked down the few steps then stood on a bit of stone that was surrounded by grass. He stared down at his feet, then looked up at everything around him.

He nearly gasped when he saw the elm tree. He turned to Sansa in wide-eyed wonder, “It’s so tall!”

She smiled back at him, and patiently stood by as he looked around the property that was both familiar and foreign. Not much had changed, but it had been so long since he’d stood amongst it that everything seemed new. He was sure he was surrounded by subtle differences but couldn’t discern any particular one.

He pointed to a distant spot, “Used to be a large barn there. My father razed it to the ground after Eleanor died. She was my sister. You… sometimes I thought you were her. Her ghost.”

Sansa looked wistfully out across the yard, “I can explain all that. When you’re ready.”

He smiled at her, “You’re patient, aren’t you? I always figured you were an impatient thing. Pushy, even.”

She laughed, and the sound filled his chest with glee, “I was impatient with _you_ because you never spoke to me when I wanted you to. Or if you did, it was with one word answers that never made much sense.”

He snorted, “I spoke to you _all_ the time. You’re the one who didn’t answer.”

She rubbed her eyes, “I can’t believe this is happening…”

“I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I doubt I’ll believe it either,” he mumbled.

She sighed, “Are you ready to go inside and talk?”

“Aye, let’s go my patient little ghost.”

They returned to their places at the table, but Sansa’s playful tone became serious, “Remember what I said: this is all good. Please keep that in mind.”

“Sansa, I just stepped outside for the first time in… in I don’t know how long. Years. You can tell me I’m about to be struck by lightning and it won’t dampen my spirit.”

She bit her lip, “It’s been eighty years.”

“What has?”

“Since you died. In there,” she pointed toward the living room, “You… well, I’m sorry to say it, but you shot yourself.”

He felt his hackles rise, “I’m not some fucking craven. Gregor had me trapped in this nightmare. Did it to torment me, as if having to see this face in the mirror every day wasn’t torment enough.”

Sansa’s forehead pinched, “I don’t understand. You were trapped since… since you killed Gregor?”

“Aye, should’ve known that kind of evil can’t be killed with a gun. Didn’t happen right away, took some time, but eventually I couldn’t leave the house. He found a way to trap me here.”

Sansa looked as confused as Sandor felt, “So… he was your ghost? Your original ghost?”

“Aye. My ghost, my gaoler, my witch… don’t understand most of it myself, just what I could glean from him over the years. What he let me glean, I suppose.”

“But… I don’t understand. He has touched me. He has grabbed me, chocked me, gripped my… body. It was as if he were a real person, in the flesh... How come with you the touches were always light, almost like they weren’t there at all?”

Sandor shook his head, “Your guess is as good as mine, girl. Best I can figure, he’s got more evil in him than you and I got goodness. Might be he’s more powerful... _was_ more powerful.”

Sandor leaned back, not much caring to think about the how’s and why’s, though Sansa seemed pretty hung up on them.

She stared down at his hands as if they held the answers, “But you saved me from him. Twice. How could you pull him off of me if he was nothing but a ghost to you?”

Sandor shrugged, “I couldn’t touch him, but I could… interfere, I suppose. Just know I could feel him; sense him. Got accustomed to his moods over the years. Him being angry at you was different from when he was angry at me. Me he wanted to hurt, to torment... You he wanted to… to take. I suppose it made me… angry.”

It was the truth but not all of it. The truth was that he felt protective of her, his ghost. It wasn’t like the others he felt in fleeting moments over the years. Gregor had his fun with them, Sandor never cared. But she was different. She felt like a kindred spirit. He wanted her for himself, and resented that Gregor seemed to have similar designs on her. It wasn’t like the others that Gregor pushed away. With her, Gregor _pulled_. He wanted something from her. Knowing both of them as only ghosts, Sandor was never sure what the dynamic between them was. Could she see him? Could he see her? Could he touch her? Could he _hurt_ her? He sensed that he could, and it made Sandor diligent.

Sandor crossed his arms over his bare chest, “He wanted something from you.”

She nodded, “He wanted me to free him, though at the time I only thought I was freeing you. But I still don’t understand. If he was the one who trapped you here, by some… some…”

“Curse?”

“I was going to say supernatural power, but I suppose _curse_ is a good word for it… anyway, if he was the one who trapped you here, wasn’t he the one who trapped _himself_ here? If he wanted to be free, why not simply lift the curse?”

“Girl, you’re asking more questions I don’t have the answers to. Maybe it weren’t him at all, maybe it were the Gods, trapping both of us here as punishment. Or maybe Gregor did it but didn’t mean to trap himself. Or maybe he did, without realizing what it really meant to be trapped. Gregor was never one to think things through. He hardly thought at all. He was a beast in a man’s body.”

She lowered her voice to a whisper, “Do you think he was…”

“Was what?”

Her cheeks flushed, “A demon? Or something like that. Something pure evil.”

Sandor chuckled, “Of that I’m sure. He lived to hurt. Usually for no reason at all. If that’s not evil than what is?”

Sansa nodded. She seemed to have lost all of the momentum of whatever she had intended to tell him and was instead stuck on trying to figure out Gregor Clegane. _Good luck with that, girl._

“But if he needed me to free him, then why did he frighten me and hurt me?”

Sandor groaned, “I don’t bloody know. Gregor wasn’t one to ask nicely. He got what he wanted by taking it, or by intimidating people into giving it. I don’t have answers for you, girl.”

She blushed, “I’m sorry.” She looked utterly disheartened, as one does when they realize that they don’t know nearly as much as they think they do.

“Eighty years, you say?”

She nodded again.

“Mm… so closer to ninety if I’m remembering right. Seven years between me killing him and him killing me, during most of which I was trapped.”

Her head cocked to one side, “Him killing you? You mean, driving you to kill yourself?”

Sandor clenched his fingers around the monstrous coffee mug, “I didn’t fucking kill myself.”

“I… I don’t understand.”

“Same way he could touch you, grab you, I suppose. I fell asleep in my chair one night, as I did often enough. He must have killed me then. Took me awhile to realize I was _dead,_ when each day was exactly the same as the last. Woke up in the same clothes even if I’d fallen asleep in something else, or nothing at all. I didn’t know what the fuck was happening, until Gregor showed me, in his own way. Every night of my life up to that point I’d dreamt the same dream – of the night I was burned. But then there was another dream. Saw myself, in my chair, dead with a hole in the back of my head.”

Sansa covered her mouth, “I’m so sorry, Sandor. I can’t… I can’t even imagine.”

He shrugged, “Wasn’t so horrible. By day it was just like being alive, only… dulled, I suppose. I’m not sure I really believed I was dead. Some days I did, some days I didn’t. If it weren’t for the fact that I didn’t eat, piss, or shit, I’d probably have been inclined to believe I was alive… worst thing was not being able to leave the house.”

She shook her head, “I can’t imagine living like that for eighty years.”

He snorted; he didn’t want her pity, “Aye, well, according to you it’s over now. You said you have things to tell me.”

She nodded, “Well, I’ve been assuming you saw all and heard all. Since that wasn’t the case, I suppose I should start from the beginning…

I’m Sansa Stark, but you know that much. I’ve lived here for a few months. I felt you as soon as I moved in. It took me some time to realize I had two ghosts, I thought you were one ghost with… well, a _mercurial_ temperament. All I knew was a vase broke, a knife flew out of my hands, I heard noises, voices, saw shadows, felt touches…

I talked to people in town, heard about your death, the deaths in your family. Did my own research looking through old newspapers. I…” tears glistened in her eyes, and he was at a loss as to how to respond.

“I believed them, just for a moment, when they said you did it all. That you killed your sister and father. But when I read about all the deaths, Gregor seemed to be the common denominator. The only person in a good position to hurt you, kill your father, maybe kill your sister…”

She reached across the table and clasped his hand. She liked to do that, it seemed.

“I think the closer I got to the truth the more agitated Gregor became. Or perhaps excited. After he attacked me that night, I confronted him. He told me to dig. So I spent every day in the woods, searching for something. Eventually something led me right to it. I thought it was you. Or Gregor. Sunny found the exact spot, and I dug all day, morning until evening, until I found a bone. Then I called the police, told them the truth… I’m not sure the sheriff believed me, but they found your note in the jar… so I got the truth, the police got the truth…”

“Oh!” she bounced out of her seat, “Look, it was in the newspaper yesterday, I—”

Her voice was cut out by a Gods-awful chiming. Sandor covered his ears and was about to run outside when Sansa lifted something off the wall and the noise stopped.

“Hello,” she said.

“What?” he responded.

She smiled and pressed a finger to her lips. She was talking to a beige-colored contraption. It looked like a handle of some sort, but Sansa pressed it to her cheek.

“Yes, Arya, I read the article. In fact I was just about to read it again,” Sansa smiled at Sandor even though she seemed to be speaking to someone else, then listening to someone else. Sandor heard a faint, high-pitched voice coming through the handle.

“Yes, I know how it looks,” Sansa said with some exasperation in her tone.

She sighed, “I don’t need you coming here to play bodyguard, Arya. I can protect myself just fine.”

She lowered her voice, blushing again, “Yes, I went to the burial. Look, can I call you later? Or tomorrow?”

“ _No_ , nothing happened. Just…”

Sansa smiled, “Yes, the ghosts are gone,” she winked at Sandor then put the handle back into its place on the wall.

She took her seat, “Sorry, that was my sister.”

Sandor stared at the beige thing on the wall and Sansa chuckled, “It’s called a telephone. It transmits sound waves over long distances via wire. So you can talk to friends or family that live out of town, or even out of state. I think it was invented shortly before you died, but it wouldn’t have been common for many more years. Certainly not in rural homes like this.”

Sandor nodded, though he didn’t really understand.

“It’s like a telegram!” Sansa peeped proudly.

Sandor nodded again. He knew what a telegraph machine was but had never really tried to understand how it worked.

Sansa tapped her fingernails on the tabletop, “So, where was I? Oh, so I also went to see this woman. I guess you’d call her a psychic. She knew without me saying anything that I was looking for my soulmate. Oh… sorry, umm… I guess I skipped over some parts. After they dug up your note, the sheriff showed me a box with your possessions. I took some of the items…”

She stood up and walked away, and he heard her rustling papers in a desk drawer before she came back into the kitchen, “So, this is your mom’s diary. I kind of stole it. And this is—”

“Eleanor,” he whispered.

Sansa nodded, “I suppose you saw the drawing when you were young.”

He nodded, “But Dad put it away after she died. Couldn’t bear to look at it. I’m glad it’s… I’m glad you have it.”

“Well, so this is where it gets kind of weird… so I read your mom’s diary when she wrote about Eleanor. The way she described her is exactly the way my mom always talks about me when I was a baby. And the physical similarities – hair, skin, and eye color. When I showed this sketch to my mother, she thought it was me.”

Sandor peered up into her eyes, “I don’t understand.”

Sansa nodded, “Did you know your mom wanted to name her Sanya?”

Sandor shook his head.

“Sanya,” she repeated the name with purpose, “One letter away from Sansa.”

“I don’t understand. Are you saying you’re my sister? That you came back the way I came back?”

She smiled wanly, “No. I’m not your sister. I didn’t just wake up as an eleven-year-old girl. I was conceived by my parents, I was born, I grew up… but it explained why I felt such a…”

“Such a what?”

She averted her eyes as her cheeks reddened, “A connection… to you… it’s because I have her soul.”

Sandor laughed, and she obviously mistook his intent as she appeared embarrassed and then insulted.

This time he took her hand, “Sansa, I believe you. I felt… well at times I wondered if you were Eleanor. But mostly it felt like... something else.” Now he was the one to avert his eyes. He was glad to be free, and glad to meet his ghost, but there was no way she felt the same attraction he felt; the same pull. She was a beautiful, modern girl. He was a scarred man who’d been dead for eighty years. They were from different times, might as well have been different worlds.

He stared at their joined hands, not sure what else should or could be said. He hadn’t even begun to wonder what this meant for him. She lived in this house, but so did he. In fact, he owned this house nearly a century before she did. Was it his by rights? Was he still Sandor Clegane? If he wasn’t, then who was he? If he was, would he be arrested the moment he revealed himself?

He began rambling off these questions to Sansa, even though he didn’t expect her to have answers.

She stared at him as he spoke, looking half surprised, half contemplative, and for some minutes after his rant was concluded. He felt like a fool, sitting in his/her kitchen, naked but for a bit of pink fabric that barely came to his knees. He supposed on her it covered everything from breast to thigh, and the thought that the same fabric may have laid against her skin just yesterday made lust spark within him, though he’d be damned if he showed it.

Her low voice pulled him from his unhelpful musings.

“I suppose I’ve wanted so badly for you to come back to me, that I didn’t think about what it would mean, in a practical sense.”

He shook his head, “I don’t understand… why did you want me to come back? Why didn’t you just leave? Gregor was dangerous. He could’ve killed you.”

“I told you already. I could feel a bond to you… to your soul. I never truly considered leaving. The idea of you trapped here for an eternity, I just couldn’t…” another tear slid down her cheek. The girl cried a lot. Not big, ugly tears, but pretty, delicate tears that matched her pretty face and delicate voice.

She let out a long sigh, “Everything will work out. But I suppose you can’t be Sandor Clegane. At least not in this town. We could move. Or we could stay here and give you a different name. It doesn’t much matter, either way you’ll not have a birth certificate or any identification.”

“What do you mean ‘we’?”

She cocked her head again, then that pretty blush returned to her cheeks, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“Assumed what?”

She wiped the tears from her cheeks, and he watched as she tried ineffectively to look unbothered, unhurt, “That we’d stay together. I felt so connected to you. Like a lost… lover. It never occurred to me you wouldn’t feel the same. But I suppose things have been quite different for you.”

Sandor’s tongue went dry in his throat upon hearing her admission. No woman fancied him, though he supposed his experiences were limited. He was barely a man when he became trapped in the house, but he’d been to town enough times prior to that to know that men and women alike were afraid of him, disgusted by him, or at minimum indifferent toward him.

She stood up and walked to the sink, busying her hands washing dishes with water that apparently was piped in from outside. She started chirping about how she’d make him some eggs then go into town and buy him clothes. She rambled about how she would move out so he could have the house to himself. She would make up a story that he was a tenant renting the house from her, though she wouldn’t expect any money. Her voice attempted calm logic but spilled over with frantic despair.

Sandor walked slowly to stand behind her and snaked his arms around her waist, just as slowly, so she could move away if she wanted to. But she didn’t. Her shoulders tensed but her hands stopped moving. She stood still, waiting for this to be revealed as either a _thank you_ hug from her friendly ghost, or a loving embrace from her _soulmate_ , as she put it.

It was the latter for him, no doubt about it. The pull he felt toward his ghost could best be described as a painful longing in the pit of his stomach – a stomach that had long ago stopped hungering for food but recently began hungering for the presence and affection of a spirit he never expected to see in any other form.

He leaned down to press a kiss to her neck and took the liberty to smell her skin. He could detect some lingering floral aroma – bath oil or perfume, he thought.

He wouldn’t tell her how he felt, didn’t have the words to, but he made sure to speak the word ‘we’ as he continued the conversation, “If we stay here, won’t anyone realize who I am? Do people still know about my scars? My height?”

Sansa nodded, “But what can they do? Sandor Clegane is long dead. There’s a death certificate, coroner’s report. No one would be able to prove that you are him.”

“Sooo… we can just live here?”

“Yes, but I shouldn’t have assumed, Sandor, I’m—”

He lifted a finger to her lips, “Stop chirping, Sansa.”

She turned within his embrace and studied his eyes intently, “Are you just agreeing be—”

He put the finger back to her lips, “That’s chirping, my pretty little bird.”

She smiled and he thought that’d be the end until she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him square on the mouth. If she was bothered by the fact that a third of his lips were nothing but scar tissue, she didn’t show it. She kissed him well and good. She squeezed him tight and he squeezed back.

The contact of her hips made his towel drop but when he moved to pick it up, she stopped him with another kiss, this one less of a demand and more of a promise. Then she took a small step back, putting enough space between them to take a good look. It was only now as her eyes raked over his body that he realized this morning, when she first saw him, she only looked at his face. _His_ face.

He felt his chest and cheeks heat until it became clear that she liked what she saw. She was appraising his body just as he’d appraised her this morning, in her thin white shirt and tiny black underwear.

_Fair is fair._

She bit her lip a moment, a habit he already knew meant she was thinking about what to say.

He expected more chirping but instead she lifted her shirt over her head hastily, as if she feared she would lose her nerve. A brassiere came off next, but Sandor barely had time to appreciate her bosom before she bent to lower her pants and underwear in one smooth motion then was pressed against him again. He may have growled or groaned or moaned when her soft breasts pressed against his ribs, but it was swallowed by her mouth, kissing him feverishly.

His cock was sandwiched between their bellies and after all this time that bit of contact felt like all seven heavens. It was all too much. After decades – almost a century – of no physical contact and only a dulled physical existence, little sparks fired everywhere her skin touched his, intentionally or inadvertently. Male instinct alone must have guided his movements, because surely if his brain was working at all it would be ordering him to think things through, to wonder how everything was falling into place so perfectly after so long. He should wonder if this was a trick orchestrated by Gregor, who perhaps gained new powers in his 88th year dead.

In her fervor to kiss and touch him she clumsily stepped on his foot and even _that_ felt nice. But none of it was as potent as when he lifted her legs to wrap around his waist, pressing her wet center against his throbbing cock. She clutched his shoulders and kissed his lips and neck in no discernable pattern, like she couldn’t get enough of his skin and beard under her soft lips.

They moaned in chorus when he pinned her to the big ice chest and sunk into her. He held her hips perhaps too firmly, though she didn’t complain, and thrust up into her once, twice, three times, and…

“Fuuuucccckkkk…” he groaned into her neck as he spilled inside her without warning, after three fucking strokes.

He left his face tucked against her so she couldn’t see his cheeks burning with shame. He was so mortified that he hoped she’d disappear, become a ghost again so he’d never have to look in her eyes. Her hands stroking his shoulders now felt patronizing instead of passionate, and it stung.

“Happy birthday, Sandor,” she whispered softly into his ear.

“What?”

“Not your original birthday, your _re_ birthday.”

“Oh. Right... Sansa, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“Fuck, you know for what. A fucking twelve-year-old could’ve lasted longer.”

She giggled, “Sandor, it’s been eighty-plus years for you. I wasn’t expecting a marathon. Besides…”

“Besides _what_?” he growled, frustrated with himself but taking it out on her.

She shimmied herself down, draping her arms over his shoulders lazily and looking him right in the eyes, “Besides… we’ve got all day.”

…

He laid in Sansa’s yellow bed, sweaty and sated and content in a way he had never been – not just in the past eighty-seven years, but _ever_. Gregor had always been a dark cloud overhead, threatening to unleash a storm at any moment.

His long-neglected cock was hard again after chasing Sansa upstairs mere minutes after his pitiful performance against the ice box that she called a re-frig-erator.

He had made up for his former shortcoming, fucking her until she came apart twice then practically begged for mercy.

Two hours and one fine breakfast later, he fucked her again. After that she rolled to her side, facing him where he lied on his back, panting. She stroked light fingers up and down his belly, tickling him even as he tried to suppress the reaction. She had teased him then, _“You know, you’re quite vulnerable right now. You don’t know how to drive accar, and even if you did, they wouldn’t let you in any stores dressed in only a towel. Perhaps I won’t go to town to buy you clothing. You’ll have to walk around the house naked each and every day, just the way I like you.”_

He had snorted at that, _“If that’s supposed to be a threat, you’d better try harder, girlie. Spend the rest of my life naked, here with you? Get to have you whenever I want? Perhaps I wasn’t reborn. Perhaps I finally died for good, and I’ve gone to the heavens.”_

She had laughed and swatted his chest. It was almost enough to make him want to go a fourth time, but she started yawning and she was too adorable to disturb as she nuzzled against him and fell asleep. It was only midday, but he liked the idea of a nap. Apparently, everyone in the house did, for Sunny the dog made her way up onto the bed, laying against Sandor’s other side. He was surrounded by flesh and blood companions he could see and hear and touch. Life was good.

…

Sandor cracked his eyes open, smiling to find the bedding beneath his head was still yellow. But when he rolled over, there was no Sansa, and the place she’d been lying was cool to the touch.

“No!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. Sooo... I had to reunite Sansa and Sandor. I just had to. I hate sad endings. 
> 
> I considered different versions of a happy ending. Like Sandor's soul being freed at the end of Chapter 11, and an epilogue where Sansa meets a handsome stranger and falls in love at first sight. But I'm selfish, and I just love book Sandor all big and brawny and scarred. Plus, if his soul was just freed, it would presumably have to be born into a newborn, so not likely to be a romantic figure in Sansa's life unless she's a cradle robber.
> 
> I permit myself and rationalize this too-perfect reunion in a couple ways. 1) this is ASOIAF, which means walking corpses, Red Magic bringing back Jon Snow and Beric Dondarrion, warging, and even dragons. So I think we're all willing to suspend our disbelief. 2) Sandor was robbed of his first life. He didn't die of old age, and he didn't even pull the trigger. The universe/Gods owed him a solid, just as it owed Sansa, whose soul has seen too much suffering. 
> 
> Another thing I want to address. I purposely omitted a detailed explanation of HOW it all worked (Gregor's powers, the "curse", the powers that led Eleanor's soul back to the house, etc.) because it's more fun to wonder about, isn't it? Plus, revealing all would mean Sandor or Sansa would have to KNOW all. And how could they unless some higher power literally whispered all the answers into their ear?
> 
> You guys have been GREAT about commenting about how invested you are in the story. I hope I haven't let anyone down. But if you survived the half-assed S8 reunion of Sandor and Sansa [suppresses rant], I suppose you can survive anything.
> 
> The rest of the fic will be posted shortly. Thanks again for reading! Every comment and kudos makes my day!


	13. Peace and Love

Sansa was smiling on the drive back from town. On the passenger seat sat a shoebox and shopping bag from the men’s clothing store. She hoped the sizes would be right and was pretty confident since she’d taken a tape measure, as best she could, to Sandor’s sleeping form. He was in a dead sleep and so darn cute in a completely unexpected way that she couldn’t bring herself to wake him. She left a note on the fridge so he wouldn’t be worried when he woke.

Beside the clothing bag were two grocery bags, as Sansa was already loving the idea of cooking for her man.

_My man._

_Not my ghost, my **man**. _

He was a big guy and hadn’t eaten anything for decades other than a simple breakfast of scrambled eggs, toast, and sliced peaches this morning. But he ate plenty of it…

Gods could the man eat. And fuck. She was blissfully sore between her legs and knew she wouldn’t be able to say no to a fourth or even fifth round today. He was that damned irresistible with his big hands, strong arms and chest, corded legs, and dark hair from head to toe. He was an archetypal man: tall, dark, strong, and hairy. Not to mention the way he spoke. He never fished for sympathy, though he had very good reason to deserve it. He didn’t complain and didn’t mince words, and yet there was something sweet about him. His eyes and words softened for Sansa. She’d known him only a day and already noticed this tendency.

_But it hasn’t just been a day. It’s been… who knows how many lifetimes?_

As she had strolled through the stores, Sansa couldn’t help but get ahead of herself, thinking of the simple, georgic life she and Sandor would have. He could plant a vegetable garden and resume the hunting that had sustained his family for years. He’d spend all day outside, as she thought he’d enjoy, while Sansa toiled at her typewriter. He’d come in for the day sweaty and ravenous for good home cooking with a slice of Sansa for dessert.

Everything else would fall into place, she dared to believe. He didn’t have to go into town anytime soon, nor meet her family. They could take their time, build a story to explain his presence in her life, as well as his own personal backstory. She was an author, it’s what she did best.

No, nothing could shatter her good mood… nothing except the sight of Arya’s car in her driveway when she pulled in.

“Fuck!”

Sansa grabbed the bags and ran inside, hoping that somehow Arya and Sandor had not crossed paths. Maybe he was still asleep, and Arya entered quietly. Maybe he heard her arrival but decided to stay upstairs.

Sansa burst through the front door, “Arya?!”

_Oh fuck…_

Sandor and Arya were sitting opposite each other in the living room, mirroring the other with arms crossed suspiciously. Sandor was wrapped in her yellow bedsheet from the waist down. Arya had on the coveralls she wore on days she worked at the shop with Gendry.

“Uhh…” Sansa started to speak while her mind raced for an explanation.

“Uhh…” she repeated before clearing her throat, “Have…. You…. Two… made introductions?”

Arya turned to look at her; Sandor was as still as a statue.

“Umm… Arya this is my uh, friend… um James!” Sansa struggled to think of a last name, then opted to go with Sandor’s mother’s name, “James _Brown_.” _Fuck._

Arya arched an eyebrow, “James Brown, huh?”

Sansa winced in awkwardness that bordered on pain, “Yes,” she managed to utter.

Arya nodded, “Wow. _Okay_ then.”

Sandor mumbled, “She figured out who I am.”

_Oh fuck. Fuckety fuck fuck._

“Umm… you mean, that you’re… uh, that we’re in a romantic relationship?”

Sandor turned to her with a scowl, “No, that I’m Sandor Clegane. Your _ghost.”_

“What?!” Sansa squeaked, hoping some of the farce could be salvaged.

Arya rolled her eyes, “A) you’re the worst liar in the world. Like, official, undisputed, reigning champion of horrible lying. You deserve a trophy. B) You’re not one to have some random guy at your house. And C) a giant, hulking man missing half his face just _appears_ here the day after Gregor’s bones were laid to rest? A man who perfectly matches the description of Sandor Clegane? A man who calls the refrigerator an _ice box_ and who stared at my car like it’s a pink elephant?”

Sansa plopped on the sofa next to Sandor, “Why are you here, anyway?”

Arya sighed, “You sounded _off_ when I spoke to you this morning. I thought maybe, after the article, some people had come to the house to hassle you and you didn’t want to tell me. I left early to check on you.”

“I’m fine, Arya. No one has come by.”

“And?”

“And what?”

Arya swirled her hand in the air, “ _And…_ what are you going to do about this?” she gestured at Sandor.

Sansa shrugged, “Well, we haven’t figured everything out, but Sandor and I are both going to stay here. It’s private here, secluded. No one can come after him for his past… life.”

“That’s it?”

“You got any better ideas?” Sansa raised her brows in subtle challenge.

“Well, you need to come up with an identity for him. What happens when he needs to go to the doctor? Or pay taxes? Or get a driver’s license?”

Sansa groaned, “I know, but I can’t just forge a birth certificate!”

Arya nodded as she tapped a finger to her lips, “Right… here’s what you need to do. Get a fake ID; I know someone who makes really good ones. Then you go to a Hall of Records – in a _different_ town. Make up some story that he was adopted and never knew his birth parents. Tell them his adoptive parents died and his house burned down so he lost all identifying documents other than his ID. Request they issue him some type of birth certificate equivalent.”

“They’ll do that?”

Arya shrugged, “I think so. It can’t be the first time someone didn’t have a record of their birth. Up until a few decades ago most babies were born at home, not in a hospital. If the parents never applied for a birth certificate then the person would need to get one years later, right?”

“I guess…”

Sandor looked between the two women quietly, and Sansa assumed he didn’t follow most of what they were saying, “Why do I need a birth certificate?”

“Well, you don’t _technically_ need one, but you’d need it if you ever wanted to get a driver’s license, or apply for a passport, or… a marriage license…”

“ _Driver’s_ license? _Marriage_ license?” he rubbed his brows.

Sansa clasped his hands, “Look, none of this needs to be done right away. We’ll take things _really_ slow, okay? All we really need to do for now is come up with a name and backstory for you, because if someone stops by, they will wonder. My family, friends, people from town…”

“Right, well… _can_ my last name be Brown, like my mother?”

Sansa smiled, “Yes, but your first name can’t be James. He’s a famous singer.”

“Umm… ok. Let’s see… Jeremiah? Walter? Harlan? Hollis? Elmer? Sherman?” Sandor seemed to be rattling off every name he knew. Sansa tried to suppress a smile at how adorable he was.

Arya chuckled, “Dude… it’s not the 1800s anymore.”

Sandor threw his hands up, “Well it is to me!”

Arya shook her head, “Alright, alright. How about Tony? Jason? Keith? Justin?”

Sandor’s mouth fell open, “Are those even men’s names? Are you trying to make me look like a fool?”

Sansa smiled, “How about we go with a traditional name that is also contemporary? Maybe one that starts with an _S_ so it will feel more natural to say and hear?”

Sandor shrugged. Sansa took his hand again, “How about Samuel? Sam, for short.”

“Samuel Brown. Sam Brown,” Sandor tried the name out, “Aye, that’s good.”

“Okay, lesson #1 for living in the 20th century. Say “yeah”, not “aye”,” Arya smirked.

“Arya, _enough_ ,” Sansa scolded, “The poor man just woke up in another century. Besides, I like that he’s… old fashioned.”

Arya rolled her eyes, “Yeah, you would. My sister is a luddite, did you know that?” Arya arched a brow at Sandor.

“What’s a luddite?”

“Ugh… it’s someone who spurns modern technology.”

“What?! She has that re-frig-erator thing. And that telegraph that you talk to.”

Arya laughed, “You mean a telephone? And yes, she has those. But she doesn’t have a TV, or a microwave.”

“What’s a tee-vee? And a micro-wave?”

Sansa patted Sandor’s leg, “Let’s not try to cover too much ground right now. I don’t want it to get overwhelming. I was actually thinking earlier that you can just keep living as you used to. If you want to hunt again, I can buy you a rifle. Or if you’d like to farm, we can plant a vegetable garden… eat our fill, maybe set up a farm stand to sell the rest?”

He waved a hand, “Aye, that I can do.”

“ _Yeah_ ,” Arya corrected with another eyeroll.

“Yeah what?”

“Say ‘yeah’, not ‘aye’, remember?”

Sandor stood up angrily, in humorous contrast to the sunshine yellow sheet around his waist, “Is she always this irksome?”

Arya huffed, “No, I’m always this _annoying_.”

“Aye, that too. Irksome, annoying, irritating, exasperating, vexing!”

“Wow, you’ve got a human thesaurus, San.”

“What did you call me?!”

Sansa laughed, “A thesaurus. It isn’t an insult. You know what a dictionary is? An encyclopedia?”

“Aye… I mean _yeah,”_ Sandor glared at Arya.

“Well, a thesaurus is like those, except instead of defining words it provides synonyms… words that mean the same as—”

“I know what a bloody synonym is.”

Sansa turned to her sister and forced her smile to dissolve, “Arya, can you leave now? It hasn’t even been a day and while I know you’re well-intentioned, perhaps it’s a bit much.”

“Fine, whatever. So what should I tell everyone?”

Sansa’s eyes widened, “Don’t tell them anything!”

“They’re going to find out eventually.”

“Yes, _eventually_. We need time to come up with a story. If you tell Mom and Dad that I’m shacking up with some guy, you know they’ll both be here demanding answers before the sun sets tonight!”

“Aye, that’s true,” Arya grinned mischievously as she parodied Sandor’s strange accent. Sandor scowled back at her.

Arya said bye to Sunny with a pat on the head then stood to leave, only stopping when her hand was on the doorknob, “Wait… _are_ you shacking up with him? Have you guys fucked already?!”

Sansa’s cheeks were burning but Sandor grinned proudly as he pulled the door open for Arya, “ _Aye…_ three times. Er, two and a half. Now be gone, little Stark.” With a shove that Sansa suspected was a small fraction of his strength he had Arya on the porch and slammed the door behind her.

Arya was never one to let someone else have the last word. She pressed her forehead against the front window and shouted, “I hope you’re using protection! Wouldn’t want you getting knocked up by a ghost!”

Sansa shook her head in reproach but was actually glad for the reminder. It hadn’t even occurred to her to think about birth control during the heady, lust-fueled morning with Sandor.

“Protection from what?” Sandor asked.

“From getting pregnant. There are things people can use to prevent pregnancy nowadays. Condoms for men, pills for women.”

“Con-doms?”

Sansa’s cheeks were on fire, “I can get them from the pharmacy. They’re latex – that’s like rubber – covers that go over a man’s… penis.”

Sandor looked horrified and Sansa laughed. After a few stunned moments he shook his head, “Why would we try to prevent that? Women are supposed to get pregnant. I’ll need sons to help tend the land, you’ll need girls to help wash the clothes, cook, clean… Someone to run this farm stand. I won’t be young forever, we need to have sons now so that by the time I’m old they’ll be big and strong enough to help out around the place, take over the farming and hunting, protect their mother…”

As Sandor prattled on, Sansa once again couldn’t stop herself from smiling at his simple ways. This morning she briefly thought he wanted nothing to do with her, now he was already planning on impregnating her with a hoard of child workers. That the idea didn’t terrify her seemed to further cement the fact that they may be strangers in body, but not in soul.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, “Well we can’t have children until we’re married. That much hasn’t changed.”

“Can’t we just tell people we’re married?”

Sansa shrugged, “I suppose… but my family won’t buy that we just met and got married. We need to wait a little while, at least. But eventually we should get married for real. And we can’t do that until we have your birth certificate.”

“Aye, the fucking _birth certificate_. I’m here, I’m flesh and blood, yet I need a scrap of paper to prove I exist?” he groaned.

Sansa chuckled, “The world has become very bureaucratic in the last hundred years. But let’s not worry about any of that now. I think after everything you’ve been through you deserve to have a few nice, peaceful days spent however you want.”

“Mmm,” Sandor hummed against the crown of her head, “ _However_ I want?”

Sansa smiled, “It’s still your birthday…”

He flung her on the couch like she weighed nothing and was about to throw himself on top of her when Sansa remembered the groceries, “Wait, I bought milk, eggs, steak, and cheese. We need to get them in the fridge. The refrigerator.”

Sandor looked at the bags, “Right. I’ll put them away. I need to get used to using that thing, anyway. You just focus on being naked by the time I’m done.”

Sansa smiled and began obediently shedding her clothes as Sandor watched her over the fridge door.

“What about the dry goods?” he called from the kitchen.

“Just leave them on the counter.”

He didn’t need to be told twice and within a few long strides he was back in the living room, looking at her curiously as she ripped the sheet away and pushed him to sit down on the couch.

His eyes widened as she straddled him.

“Never done it this way?” she asked coyly.

He shook his head, “Didn’t have many opportunities.”

“Good,” Sansa smiled, “Then let me educate you.”

She pressed her lips to his neck, nibbling on the tender skin beneath his ear as his half-hard cock turned into a steel rod between her legs. She rolled her hips to stroke him with her slick flesh, causing him to drop his head back against the couch as his lips parted in wonderment and pleasure.

She teased him this way for a few minutes before guiding him into her channel. She was indeed chafed down there but also aroused enough that once he was past her barrier there was little pain.

She continued rocking against him, slowly at first, then gaining speed as she found her rhythm. His hands instinctively found her hips and guided her movements gently. She loved how his large hands looked splayed out against her pale skin.

His girth made it easy to climax but after having three orgasms already this morning she needed a little extra oomph. She circled her clit with one finger as Sandor watched in utter fascination.

“Can I do it?” he asked timidly.

Sansa smiled, “Of course.” She guided his thumb and let him take over. His calloused skin felt so much better than her own and she was building toward a powerful orgasm when he leaned forward and took a nipple in his mouth, never stopping the movement of his thumb or slight bucking of his hips.

“Oh Gods, Sandor… I’m close,” she panted.

With one arm braced on the back of the sofa and the other on his shoulder, she began working her hips frantically, grinding and bearing down so his shaft was pressed tightly against her inner bundle of nerves.

“Oh Gods… Sandor… oh Gods… I’m… I’m… _FUCK!_ ”

He stared at her with awe-filled and hungry eyes as she rode her climax and eventually slowed to a stop, slumping against his chest.

He wasted no time in wrapping his arms around her and burrowing his face between her breasts.

“I’ll get the fucking certificate, little bird. I don’t want to wait. I want to marry you and give you babies. I want to live my life with you. Tell me what to do, Sansa, and I’ll do it.”

She sat back and took his face in her hands, the half that was perfect in a rugged and masculine way, and the half that had been marred, yet still fascinated her deeply. She kissed his lips, loving the many sensations her own lips felt: softness, roughness, and the scratchy tickle of mustache. How could she have ever enjoyed kissing soft pouty lips surrounded by smooth, clean-shaven skin?

“You can start by making love to me,” she whispered.

With one hand on the small of her back and the other at the nape of her neck he rolled them over, so he hovered above her. His eyes were squinted in concentration, or perhaps disbelief as he looked down at her. Their bodies were still joined, and he began moving slowly, deliberately, all the while never breaking eye contact except to occasionally plant a kiss on her forehead, lips, or heart.

Pleasure built but she didn’t chase it. She wanted to just _feel_ him. Feel his strength and his gentleness. Feel the heat of his seed when it poured into her along with his love, an unspoken but no less meaningful declaration.

Their connection transcended space and time. There was no doubt in her heart, nor any to be found in his eyes. It might not always be easy, mainly due to the influence of the outside world. But within this house, within each other’s arms, there would be nothing but peace and love.


	14. My soul (Epilogue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The fluffiest chapter I've ever written in a fanfic. Ever.

Sansa’s husband was weird. Rick had known the man for four years and still found odd things about him. His accent, for one thing. He was born and raised on an island off of Lannisport, but Rick didn’t think that would explain such a strange accent and even stranger word choice.

He was also afraid of cars. Driving them, being in them. He never even stood very close to them, if he could help it. Sansa explained to the family one night that Sam had been in a car accident when he was six years old – that’s how his face got burnt. A passing motorist pulled him from the burning wreckage, but his parents weren’t so lucky. He’d been raised in a group home after that. Rick could get being traumatized by that, but more than twenty years later to still be afraid of cars?

He was also freakishly old-fashioned. He always wore button-up, collared shirts and never wore shorts. Once Rick stopped by unexpectedly while Sam was mowing the yard. The man was wearing a ribbed tank top but hastily covered himself with his dress shirt when he saw Rick pull up.

He never got any of Rick’s pop culture references, either. He admitted that he didn’t like TV shows or movies and spent more time reading or working outside. In that way he was well matched to Sansa, whose small TV was more decorative than anything, and who still preferred vinyl to cassette. 

No, Rick didn’t feel he had much in common with Sam, but if there was one thing he couldn’t fault the man for, it was his love of Sansa and their son. Rick could still remember the _Great Wall_ – as he and his siblings had called it – that Mom erected when she found out her perfect daughter was living in sin with a man she’d only known for two months. When Sam and Sansa eloped another two months later, the Wall stood strong. Mom gave Sansa the silent treatment, _big time_. Another month later when Sansa announced she was pregnant everyone expected the Wall to shatter into a billion shards of ice that would avalanche all of Westeros.

But then a funny thing happened. Mom saw the way Sam doted on Sansa during her pregnancy, and the Wall began to thaw. While Sansa worried her figure would be ruined, Sam was eager to fatten her up with milk, meat, and vegetables “to make their son strong”. As Sansa’s belly got big, Sam was always by her side, offering a hand to help her up even when the only thanks he got was an eyeroll. He was always there with a kiss on her head and a cup of her favorite decaf mint tea.

When Sansa went into labor Sam was a wreck. Rick wasn’t there to see it, but Arya was, and told him in unnecessarily vivid detail. Dad practically had to talk the man down from the ledge of Lannisport General, but it was ultimately Mom who calmed him down and relieved him of his irrational fear that Sansa would die during her labor. Mom explained how she herself birthed five healthy children, all naturally, and that Sansa would be no different.

Mom was right, of course, and Rick still remembered the pure love in Sam’s eyes as he held his son while Rick visited the next day. Andrew Jonathan Brown, or “Andy” could not have been born to a more devoted father and loving mother. Rick was far away from wanting a family of his own, but that was the first time he actually thought of it as something that _would_ happen for him someday instead of something that _could_ happen.

He apparently wasn’t the only one of his siblings moved by that moment. Two months later Arya and Gendry eloped in Braavos, and five months later Jon and Yig announced to the family that they were expecting. Robb and Jeyne had difficulties conceiving, but didn’t begrudge Sansa and Jon their fertility, and instead began considering adoption.

Now Rick sat at the large picnic table in Sansa’s yard – the one Sam had built himself – and thought about how much difference four years made. A little over four years ago, Rick, Arya, Bran, and Gendry were practically running and screaming out of Sansa’s house. Now it had become the unofficial gathering place for the Stark family. With two guest bedrooms and a large living room, there was plenty of space to crash, but Sam went above and beyond to build a large detached garage with a loft that comfortably slept two. Rick and Bran would often sleep there, though they had to fight Jon and Arya who each wanted the loft so they could have privacy with their respective spouses.

Among all the Starks, Dad was probably the closest to Sam. They were both outdoorsy types, and Rick was pretty sure Dad idolized Sam’s ability to never come back from a hunt empty-handed. After some initial skepticism, mainly due to Sam’s intimidating appearance, Dad quickly realized that Sansa would never be safer or more loved than with Sam. The man was hopelessly devoted to her, and their love was reflected in the fact that Sansa was now pregnant _again_ – nearly seven months along. It was a hot day, and no one dared complain when Sansa dunked her swollen feet into the large metal ice tub that contained their beers and sodas.

Arya scrunched her nose and looked at Gendry, “Kill me if my ankles ever get that swollen.” As the last word came out, her eyes widened and her hand clamped over her mouth.

“You’re pregnant!?” Mom shrieked with delight.

Everyone then bore witness to a rare Arya Waters blush. She mumbled below her breath, “Eleven weeks.”

All the women – Yig, Jeyne, Sansa, and Mom jumped for joy and formed a circle of feminine excitement around Arya as all the men gave Gendry much more subdued pats on the back.

Gendry was as red as a firetruck himself, “Any advice?”

Dad shrugged, “When she asks for chocolate covered pickles, don’t tell her they don’t exist, just go get yourself some chocolate syrup and some pickles and roll up your sleeves.”

Gendry laughed as Sam took up the torch, “When she cries over a wilted bouquet of flowers, just give her a hug – _don’t_ offer to replace the flowers until she’s had adequate time to mourn them.”

Jon snorted, “Keep four extra pillows on the bed; one to wedge against her back, one to wedge against her front, and the other two to protect yourself when she attacks you for the very valid reason of not having a uterus.”

Bran appeared from inside where he had been entertaining Andy and Daisy (Jon’s daughter) with a video game. At seeing all the commotion his brow furrowed. Rick laughed, “Arya’s pregnant, too.”

Bran smacked his forehead, “Are they doing this on purpose? Sansa, then Yig, then Sansa again, now Arya… I can’t remember the last time we had a family function that didn’t involve complaints of swollen ankles, sore backs, tiny bladders, or one of us running out to the store because no one thought to bring double-fudge peanut butter cookies.”

Robb smacked Bran on the shoulder with a mischievous grin on his lips, “What about you? Things are getting pretty serious with that Meera chick that you refuse to bring around.”

Bran rolled his eyes, “That’s because I don’t want to scare her off.”

Dad’s face cracked in affront, “What does that mean?”

“Not you guys, _them…”_ he hooked his thumb toward the group of women crying, laughing, and hugging. “They’re going to interrogate her, then after they deem she’s sane, they’ll bombard her with my baby photos. Sansa and Jeyne will ask when we’re getting married. Mom will grill her on her childhood and parents, then Yig and Arya will try to convince her that she doesn’t need a man even though they’re both happily married.”

All the men laughed. Rick figured it was as good a time as any to mention his own news, “Well, you can bring her over when I bring over Shireen, so at least Meera and Shireen can go through the torture together.”

Dad’s eyes widened, “Shireen? Who’s Shireen?”

Rick felt his cheeks heat, “It’s not serious, Dad, we’ve just been on a couple dates.”

“But…?” Dad pried in his annoying, all-knowing tone.

“ _But_ … I like her. A lot. I think she might be, ya know…”

“The one?” Robb asked, incredulous.

Rick couldn’t contain his smile, “Yeah. _Maybe_.”

The women had made their way over stealthily, no doubt sensing that something juicy was being spoken about. It was a sixth sense all the Stark women – by blood or marriage – seemed to possess.

Rick gave Arya a hug, “Congrats, Sis.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the small smile that graced her lips.

Sansa raised her eyebrows suspiciously, “What are you boys whispering about over here?”

Jon chuckled, “We weren’t _whispering_ , it just sounded like that in contrast to all of your screaming and cackling.”

“Fine, then what were you _not whispering_ about?” Sansa asked as she leaned against Sam who gladly supported her weight.

Rick groaned, “Don’t make a big deal, but I’m kind of seeing someone.”

A big deal was indeed made. The women barraged him with a chorus of questions he could barely make out as they spoke over each other.

Sam held his big hands out, “Would you leave the poor lad alone? If this is the reaction he gets, he’ll never want to tell you anything.”

Mom put her hands on her hips, “Samuel Brown, don’t think because you gave me the world’s cutest grandson that you can speak to me in that tone.”

Sam bent down to pick up Andy, whose chubby cheeks, dark hair, and sky-blue eyes were Mom’s greatest weakness in the world. “Are you _sure_?”

Catelyn Stark resisted the temptation for about five whole seconds before grabbing three-year-old Andy out of Sam’s hands with a resigned sigh, “At least _one_ man in this family doesn’t mind talking to Mom-Mom, does he?”

Andy smiled, “Mom-mom!”

Everyone giggled, which prompted Andy’s smile to widen even more. The kid was a spitting image of his father but with Sansa’s eyes and smile.

Jon crossed his arms in mock seriousness, “Alright, Ma. What’s gonna happen after Sansa gives birth to Ellen Jeyne? Is Daisy still going to be the world’s cutest granddaughter?”

No one missed how Sam’s hands went to Sansa’s belly as he stood behind her, resting his chin on her head.

“Of course,” Mom beamed, “it’ll just be a tie for first place.”

Gendry got in on the teasing, “And if me and Arya have a girl, then it’ll be a three-way tie, right?”

Arya punched him lightly in the arm, “Stop with the crazy talk, we’re having a boy.”

Robb chuckled and passed a glance to Jeyne, who nodded in response. He cleared his throat, “Well, if Arya doesn’t get her way it may end up being a four-way tie.”

Jeyne wrapped her hands around his arm and smiled, “We were going to tell you guys tonight after dinner, and I hope we’re not stealing the spotlight from Arya and Gendry, but…”

Robb pulled a photo from his back pocket and held it out proudly for everyone to see. Men and women alike gasped and cooed at the photo of a newborn baby wrapped in a pink blanket.

Robb beamed, “Her name is Elayna. She was born two weeks ago. Jeyne and I are flying to Dorne on Wednesday to bring her home.”

The hugs and laughter recommenced in full force. Jeyne was practically sobbing tears of joy. Everyone knew how badly she and Robb wanted to be parents, only to have a bomb dropped on their hopes less than a year into their marriage that Jeyne was barren.

Dad moved to wrap an arm around Mom, who was crying just as much as her daughter-in-law, as Sansa and Arya mauled Robb and Jeyne with hugs.

When Arya pulled away from Robb her eyes were red and her cheeks were wet. It was perhaps the most shocking revelation of the day. She waved away everyone’s looks of concern and surprise, “I’m not crying, alright? My eyes are just watering.”

Sam eyed Gendry as if to say, “ _see what I mean?”_

“I mean it!” Arya squealed when everyone remained unconvinced, “I’m not crying. I’m not… I’m…” she covered her eyes with her hand, “Oh damnit, I am crying! I just can’t believe all our kids are going to grow up together. They’re going to play together, learn together, grow together.”

Sam was the first one to figure out how to deal with this stranger who had taken control of Arya’s voice box and tear ducts. He wrapped a long arm around her narrow shoulders, “Aye, little Stark, that they will.”

…

Sandor sat on the carpet helping Andy arrange his wooden blocks while Sansa nursed Ellen in the recliner, eyes closed peacefully. She amazed him every single day with how much love she had for her children and her husband – not to mention the rest of her large family which apparently was getting even larger. Apparently Stark men and women alike were fertile creatures. A few weeks after Sansa gave birth to Ellen, Jon and Yig announced their second child would be arriving in about seven months. And Arya was due any day now to deliver her first.

Leading up to her labor, Sansa spent many hours with Jeyne and Robb, helping them with their beautiful newborn daughter adopted from Dorne.

Sandor was only slightly less worried the second time around, when Sansa woke him at two in the morning to let him know her cramping had started. With Andy, Sansa and Sandor had stayed at her parents’ house starting a week before her due date so they’d be closer to the hospital. That meant Sandor didn’t have to drive the glass and metal box himself. With Ellen, they stayed at home and the drive to the hospital fell on Sandor. He’d gotten better at driving, but still didn’t like it, and he knew Sansa was frustrated that he drove too slowly and spent too much time loitering at stop signs.

But as Sansa’s pains came on fast, he forgot all about his fears and focused only on getting his wife and soon-to-be-daughter to the hospital, all while Andy slept in the backseat, blissfully unaware.

It was only after Ellen was in his arms that Sandor worried about how Andy would react. He had read his mother’s diary and knew that Eleanor’s birth was when Gregor first began showing signs of his dark nature. At first it appeared to be innocent jealousy that any youngster would have once they had to start sharing his parents’ attention. But when Gregor never took a liking to little Eleanor, and even seemed to at times revel in her discomfort, it was enough for Sandra to be concerned. Sandor knew firsthand that Gregor continued to be vindictive and cruel toward both his younger siblings after their mother died. The fear that Andy would follow in Gregor’s footsteps made Sandor’s blood curdle. But the moment Sansa placed Ellen in his little arms, praising him for holding his sister the right way and going on and on about how Andy would be the best brother, Sandor knew his fears were for not.

They still made sure Andy got plenty of attention, which was easy enough since the tyke loved being outside with his dad, but it was clear there was no threat of Andy turning against his little sister. He would join Sansa in singing lullabies to her. He marveled at her every move, even watching with fascination when Sansa nursed her. The first time he kissed her fuzzy little head Sandor’s throat tightened with emotion. When Ellen cried Andy looked genuinely concerned, then relieved once Sandor or Sansa was able to calm her.

Sandor stared down at his son who managed to spell the word “cat” with his blocks. Sandor was convinced the boy was a genius and shouldn’t be surprised, given his mother. He looked to the woman then and found her eyes were now open, and she was watching father and son with a contented look on her face. Sandor smiled back at her, “I want another one, little bird.”

She chuckled softly, “Do I get a say in that?”

“No,” he answered honestly, “because you know if you fight me on it, I’ll just wear you down eventually.”

Sansa rolled her eyes. Their marriage had been easy to-date, but if Sansa had one complaint it was that Sandor was as stubborn as a mule. He liked to think he made it up to her by worshipping the very ground she walked on – literally. If she asked it of him, he would crawl across a gravel path ten miles long just to make her happy. He was her loyal dog, and she was his goddess. Though the speed of life effectively distracted both of them from the reality of his previous existence, he occasionally stopped to think about just how lucky he was that Sansa Stark didn’t give up on her ghost. That she faced fear and even bodily harm to stay with him. That she trekked through the dense forest and dug until she had blisters on her fingers for the chance to free his soul. That even after she did all that, she didn’t give up on him. She invited him to join her, and he did.

They still had more questions than answers about how it all worked, but neither cared to probe too deeply. It was enough to have each other, and the family they made together.

Of course, it hadn’t all been smooth sailing. The first few months were stressful. Sandor resisted sleeping at night, afraid he’d wake up to find himself back in that purgatory he’d lived in for eighty years. He was at times moody and sullen, because that was all he knew how to be, but he quickly learned that it would only hurt Sansa, and she was his everything. If he had to smile when he felt like scowling it was a small price to pay to have the woman who saved him, loved him, and gave him his children.

Though oddly enough, he didn’t want to scowl that often. He could be snappish at times, but Sansa knew just how to deal with those moods. She’d either stare him down, or she’d sigh and walk away. Neither was pleasant, and he’d quickly forget whatever he’d been miffed about in the first place.

Sunny wandered into the living room and plopped heavily at Sansa’s feet with a groan. She was getting up in her years, had more white than black in her muzzle, but she was a good girl. She was often outside with him and Andy, and it reassured Sandor to know there was an extra set of eyes on his boy.

Sandor sighed, contemplating their life. Few in town wondered who he was. No one knew Sansa very well before Sandor appeared, so who could say that he wasn’t an old friend or boyfriend of hers? To this day, among Sansa’s family, only Arya knew who he was, though he sometimes wondered if the others suspected. Any who’d read the article about the _Clegane_ _family_ published after Gregor’s bones were found would know what Sandor Clegane allegedly looked like. But then again, who would actually believe that a ghost would magically materialize as a living breathing man? Accusing him of being a former ghost would be as embarrassing for them as it would be awkward for him.

There were only two other men who seemed to suspect Samuel Brown was actually Sandor Clegane. One was the mustached sheriff who stopped by one afternoon, about two months after Sandor was _reborn_ , to check on Sansa. Sansa offered the story they’d created together, introducing Sam as her boyfriend, but the sheriff’s eyes were wide, and Sandor thought he didn’t blink once the entire time he sat at their table and ate crumb cake and coffee.

Another old man in town named Stewart eyed Sandor warily as he greeted Sansa in the grocery store. At the time, Sandor was too overwhelmed by the assortment of brightly-packaged foodstuffs to give Stewart much thought, but after they left Sansa confessed that she had talked to the old man about her “ghosts”, and that his grandson Paul had been in the middle of asking her to dinner when her knife nearly impaled him. Sandor grumbled. Gregor was an ass, but if he scared off a would-be beau than perhaps Sandor could be thankful for that, at least.

“I think this one’s ready for bed,” Sansa yawned as she stood with Ellen in her arms.

Sandor chuckled, “Mama or baby?”

“Both,” Sansa smiled.

“Aye, I think little man and big man will be joining you shortly.”

“Okay. Don’t forget to turn off the lights.”

Sandor mumbled an affirmative. Another thing about this world that took some getting used to: electric light fixtures. Sandor still didn’t understand the science behind it, he only knew he hated those bright white bulbs that radiated light. He supposed it was better than lanterns and candles, given his aversion to fire, but the day Sansa cautioned him about using electric devices near water, he wanted to take an axe to the thick wooden pole that brought such an abomination into his house. That he could be killed by electric shock, as she called it, or even an electric _fire_ were possibilities he didn’t want to consider. He preferred a dark house to the threat those white bulbs represented, and since he rarely turned the lights _on_ , he often forgot to turn them _off._

“Alright little man, let’s get your teeth brushed and go to bed.”

“Story?” Andy asked.

“Aye, I’ll read you a book.”

“No, the ghost story, daddy!”

Sandor smiled. His “tale” of the ghost princess who saved the knight trapped in the old castle was one of Andy’s favorites. He couldn’t wait until Ellen was old enough to hear and understand it. Sansa had a similar tale, of how a kind ghost saved a young girl from an evil ghost that wanted to harm her. Sandor thought his story was more original, especially considering Sansa made up stories for a living, but he never told her that. Andy loved both stories, and that was all that mattered.

…

Sansa paced the living room while two-and-a-half-year-old Ellen watched cartoons. Sansa had never cared much for television shows, but as a parent of two young children she realized the device had its merits.

Sandor and Andy would be back from the farm supply store soon, and Sansa couldn’t wait to share her good news.

She still laughed every time she thought of Sandor driving their car. The first time she’d driven him in the car, he practically pissed himself with fear. She kept the speedometer at 25 mph and even that was too fast for him. She had to pull over about a dozen times to let impatient motorists pass, and each time the truck or car barreled past them at 50 mph Sandor clutched the dashboard like he was bracing for an earthquake. He could drive himself now, but still drove like an eighty-year old woman. It annoyed her when they were in a hurry, but knowing that Andy was often in the backseat when Sandor went into town made Sansa glad that Sandor was such a defensive driver. He toted precious cargo, after all.

Sandor’s fear of automobiles resurfaced, however, when Andy started kindergarten. When Sandor learned a stranger would pick Andy up and bring him home, he nearly had a heart attack. When he saw the big yellow school bus, he was somewhat mollified – knowing few vehicles would be on the winning side of a collision involving a bus.

Sansa smiled to herself as she waited for her boys to return. She still missed the Sandor that stared in awe at the agitator in the washing machine, or the sounds and sights that came from the TV. Though modern music was still torture to his ears, and she couldn’t entirely disagree.

Their entire first year together had been a learning process for both of them, but there continued to be new discoveries. Every time she thought she had told him everything he had to know about the 20th century, she realized there was more to teach him. The hair dryer. The blender. The dishwasher Jon installed for them last year. Payphones. Airplanes (which he vowed to never experience firsthand). Even clothing. He curled his lip at the rainproof coat she bought him their first winter together, though he slowly realized it was far superior to any natural fabric.

Four months ago they bought a riding lawnmower, and Sandor grumbled about it for days, stubbornly letting the grass get high. When he found Sansa mowing the lawn herself, he finally caved. It was _men’s work_ , and he would not let his wife demean him by doing one of his jobs.

Now he rode back and forth over the yard with Andy on his lap and a smile on his face.

His current plan was to fence off a portion of the yard and build a stable. They could buy their own horse and also rent out some of the stalls to other horse owners to bring in some extra income. Sansa loved this idea and was secretly planning to buy Ellen a pony when she turned five in a couple years. Moreover, picturing Sandor on a horseback did crazy things to her lady parts. It would be like having her own cowboy, or a knight of old. Maybe they’d buy two horses so they could ride together when they were lucky enough to get a babysitter.

Though it didn’t take much luck, in that regard, nowadays. Jon and Yig needed to move into a larger home after she became pregnant with their second child – another daughter, this one named Lily (for a tomboy, Yig sure liked flowery names for her daughters). They just so happened to find a perfect, four-bedroom raised ranch that was only ten minutes from Sansa’s house. Jon was now Silverhill’s go-to handyman, having taken over the business of an older gentleman who had slowed down his hours considerably.

None of her other siblings were in a position to move close to Sansa, not that she expected them to, because they all had jobs in or around the city. But that Arya and Gendry’s house happened to be fifteen minutes closer to Sansa than their old apartment perhaps wasn’t a coincidence.

Catelyn and Ned today had six grandchildren: Andy, Elayna, Daisy, Ellen, Tom, and Lily. Tom was Arya’s son – of course she got her way. Six was soon to be seven, and Sansa wondered how long before seven became eight, as Bran and Meera recently tied the knot and Rick had popped the question to Shireen a couple months ago.

Six grandbabies in eight years. Sansa only wished time would slow down. Eight years ago Sandor woke up in her bed. The time passed like a tornado. They were both now in their mid-thirties, and Sansa wondered if this would be her last pregnancy. She would be happy with three, though Sandor thought five was quite reasonable. Sansa didn’t want to be pregnant in her forties, because as much as she loved her kids, she looked forward to the notion of her and Sandor sitting on the front porch, sipping tea and enjoying life while there was still some vigor left in their bones. Perhaps they’d travel a bit (by car, not plane). Perhaps they’d spend weeks at a time visiting their kids and – someday – grandkids. It was selfish, perhaps, but she wanted time with just her husband while she was still young enough to savor it. But then she’d imagine the day one of her kids left the nest and she’d be a puddle of tears. _Okay. Maybe four kids._

“Hi, Mama,” Sandor’s deep voice rasped from the doorway.

“Hi boys! Andy what do you have there?”

“A horse, mama,” he beamed as his little hand held out the plastic toy for her to inspect.

Sansa smiled at Sandor, “I’m already on board with the horse idea, you didn’t need to rope our son in to support your cause.”

“I wasn’t! It was at the checkout aisle. Mitch was impressed with how well-behaved Andy was and let him have it for free.”

“Aww! Mitch is a sweetheart. I just can’t believe he’s still running the store.”

“Aye, how old is he now, a hundred?”

Sansa chuckled, “I wouldn’t be surprised… not that you should talk.”

“Hey! I’m only thirty-three.”

“Mmmhmm…” Sansa smirked. She liked teasing Sandor for his “age”. It helped make her feel better after she realized that that she had married a younger man. One year younger, but still.

Sandor wrapped his arms around her waist, “Don’t worry darlin’, I’ll still love you when your hair turns grey a whole year ahead of mine.”

Sansa swatted his chest, “And I’ll still love you when your belly gets soft and your start to lose your hair.”

Sandor groaned, “I’m never going bald or soft.”

“Mmm, is that a promise?”

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Sansa smiled. Though Sandor was always sweet and gentle with her, he’d never shed the manly identity that defined men of his generation. Men worked, men provided, men didn’t cry, men didn’t sing, and men certainly didn’t let their bodies go soft. Sansa wouldn’t complain, because as much as she considered herself to be progressively minded, there was no denying she was old fashioned. She liked being the woman to his man. She liked strong arms that held her tight. She liked nature’s cologne of cedar and sweat. She liked a man who didn’t complain. A man who knew how to protect his family. A man who worked hard all day and only asked for a good meal and good lovin’ in return.

Sandor walked to where Ellen was still glued to the TV and bent down to kiss her head, “Hey, doll… Oh, I almost forgot. Mitch said the Archers’ hound had pups. I think I’ll take one.”

“Are you asking or telling?” Sansa teased.

Sandor looked at her, “Asking?”

“Right answer,” Sansa smiled, “But I’m not sure the timing is right. You see, we already have another pup on the way.”

His brow furrowed, “From where? Can’t get better than Archer’s hounds – the man knows his dogs. dogs. Don’t tell me you ordered one of those _poodles_ , or one of those damned yapping terriers.”

“Nope,” Sansa popped the P, waiting for the words to sink in. When they didn’t, she glanced down at her belly. Sandor’s eyes followed their path then his mouth opened into an O.

He took a step closer to her, “Really?”

She bit her lip and nodded.

He shook his head. “Woman,” he mock-scolded as he closed the gap and lifted her into his arms, spinning her around the living room.

Andy and Ellen looked up. Andy’s eyes narrowed, “What’s going on?”

“Mama’s going to have another baby, son.”

Andy slapped his forehead, a Stark habit he picked up organically, “Another baby?”

Sansa chuckled as Sandor put her down, “I know, you’re surrounded by younger cousins and siblings, huh kiddo?”

“Yeah,” Andy shrugged, “I guess it’s alright.”

Sansa sat next to him on the sofa, “Talk to Uncle Robb. He took being the oldest way too seriously. Always bossing us around, acting like he was our dad.”

“Really?”

“Mmhmm. Not that I’m encouraging that behavior. Just, ya know, being the oldest has some perks.”

“Yeah. I get to do everything first.”

“Yep.”

“But Mama…?”

“What, honey?”

“Can you have a boy this time?”

Sansa smiled as she kissed his head, “I’ll try.”

Sandor locked the front door, “Andy, can you watch your sister for a few minutes? Mama and Daddy need to talk upstairs.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

Sansa let her husband practically drag her up the stairs. She knew there’d be no talking. Sandor was a very primal man, and the only time he was more amorous than when he was trying to get her pregnant was when he just learned she _was_ pregnant.

The bedroom door was locked and not a second was wasted before pieces of clothing were yanked off and tossed aside. Sandor hurriedly kissed from her neck down to her belly before laying her down and sinking inside her. As he moved back and forth with slow but powerful thrusts, she heard him whisper in her ear.

“My pretty ghost. My little bird. My wife. My everything.”

Sansa smiled against his cheekbone, remembering when he was nothing more than a ghost to her, and she to him.

“My grumpy ghost. My perfect husband. My heart. My soul.”


End file.
